Logs:A Week and Forever Ago
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| RL Date: 20 April, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, T'mic |
| Type: Log |
| What: Friends meet in a quiet place, and are still rather far apart. |
| Where: Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Feel free to edit! |
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>---< Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr(#1549RJ) >------------------------------< With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. -----------------------------< Active Players >----------------------------- Faryn F 22 5'4" lean, brown hair, brown eyes 0s T'mic M 20 6'4" broad, black hair, brown eyes 5m Nighthearth is quiet, and mostly empty. There is bustling to either side - the kitchens in particular, as they clang and clatter the final rounds of cleanup from dinner - and once or twice someone has ghosted through, but nobody stays. It probably has nothing to do with the figure curled in a chair, half-asleep and staring into the fire in the hearth; she doesn't seem to notice them at all, either way. It's a wonder T'mic is even aware of what's in front of him at this stage, moving, half-asleep, through the caverns. He doesn't look all that much different, on the outside. He's managed to keep his hair for now, and that strand of bracelet from the weyrbrats as well, although it's been stained. The smells of dragon, dried blood, and hard work all come with him, when he eases into the chair next to the half-asleep figure, when he looks over, to see if he's disturbing anyone... Maybe Faryn is noticing more than it seems, because when another figure is there and settles, she turns with a dispassionate expression already well in place. It flips abruptly to surprise when she sees exactly who it is, and her posture adjusts, straightening, squaring her shoulders though she is still technically curled up, by the strictest standards. "Tom-" she starts, then clips off with the sound of her teeth. "T'mic," she corrects, softly. "You...look terrible." Also, maybe, hi? T'mic doesn't straighten or sit up, not now he's into that chair. He does give a slow-growing, but seemingly ever-growing, grin to Faryn. Even when she tells him what he looks like. "It's still strange. To hear that from anyone other than him. Well, and Quinlys." He tugs at his shirt, almost as if proudly. "I'm going to get a bath today. Today, I am." His head turns, toward the baths. He makes no move to get up out of that chair. He looks her over, without much moving anything but his eyes, and keeps on with that smile. "Hi." "I bet. Hi," she metes in return, watching him with concerned eyes. When she returns his smile, it is small and a little forced, but not disingenuous. It's the look about him, the proud declaration of having the luxury of bathing, that makes her mime pinching her nose to block out the smell. "Do you want some klah, or..." she gestures to the pots over the fire, and whatever their contents are. Surely she doesn't know. T'mic raises a hand, and shakes his head. "I'm so full right now. I think. One of us is. I ate, though." His eyes have tracked over to that pot; he brings them back to Faryn. There's a bleary blink, before he says, "You weren't there. The next morning." Faryn's brows quirk slightly, at that, but she doesn't offer again; indeed, she seems quite alright with leaving off about Jorrth, little Jorrth, until T'mic continues. The smile wipes out; she schools her expression into neutrality before it can go too far any direction. "No," she agrees, "I wasn't." T'mic is not so good about schooling his expression. He lets out a sad look, and shifts just a little in his chair, mostly to the tune of turning his head so his cheek is rested against the back of it. "I barely remember anything between stepping out, and then that. Except Jorrth." It sounds like an apology. It comes before a softer, almost-whispered, "Are you okay?" "Don't." Apologize, maybe, or give her that look. "It happened pretty fast - you had things to focus on. You had him. And he needed you, you could just see." Faryn shakes her head, sharply, averting her eyes back to the fire. "I'm fine. I'll...be fine. Those dragons of yours need to grow faster." When she laughs, it's a short bark, one trying hard for humor but not quite getting there. "Things are...quiet, without you." "Only after you dragged me out there," Tomic- no, T'mic - are they the same person? - says thoughtfully. He's squinting harder at her, now she's not looking back to him. "I miss sleeping in the hay," he admits, in a lighter tone, now, easing his watching of her, easing his expression. "But you know, Jorrth wants to see runners. He could probably jump all the way out there. And he's little enough I can carry him." That brings not just a grin, but a laugh, this one neither about nor trying for humour. This one's just joy and love and probably a little bit of reaction to cuteness. "You would have made it either way," Faryn asserts. "If I'd never accepted, would you have just hunkered in the barracks? No." Rhetorical and answered, thank you very much. There is still apprehension, though, and a little perplexed look for T'mic's laughter, his apparent joy even though he's filthy and exhausted looking, like he's been dragged through the ringer several times over. "You could bring him," she says, "or I could bring a runner...somewhere. Not the barracks: if they get hungry and think they can hunt, because they don't know better...." Another shake of the head, disregarding it. "Why does he want to see runners of all things? So he can see where the tastiest bits are?" "Oh, it's not just runners," the new weyrling shakes his head. "It's everything. All the people I love and all the dragons and all the places I've been and all the places I've heard about it... everything. He asks me about them, but then he wants to see. Only his legs are so small..." This time, the laugh is kept in, and T'mic just gives a contented little wriggle in his chair. "Everything, Faryn," is a bit more sober, if still fond. She's smiling at the fire. It comes unbidden to Faryn's lips at his explanation, less for the explanation itself and more for the enthusiasm, the happiness he delivers it with. The complete and unbridled joy it brings. "He'll get longer legs, I'd wager," is her offering, "but he probably won't beat anyone in running laps" Quieter, then, after a moment of silence, still directing her gaze and her words to the fire, "I'm really happy for you. For all of you. They chose their lifemates so well." "Yeah," agrees Tomic. "He's bigger already." It's a statement that leads into the silence easily, that he almost seems to enjoy for a moment, his cheek still pressed against the chair at all. When she speaks again, those words do bring a bit of worry to his face. "I hope so," is earnest, a bit nervous, under all those layers of smitten. He grips loosely at the arm of the chair, then tighter. It might have been more dramatic and less ridiculous, if he'd been able to move the furniture around so as to bring himself nearer Faryn and her seat without scraping the legs against the caverns floor. Alas. It's the scraping that attracts the crafter's gaze, her dark eyes flicking sidelong at T'mic and watching his ungainly progression closer. "He didn't make a mistake, not with you. Even to me, it all seems...right." There's a note to her confession that makes it strained, but she'd promised to try, and so she carries on, reaching for him when he's closer, "You'll show him everything and more, even things you didn't know you knew. I'm sure of it." When the arm of his chair bumps into hers, T'mic stops. "I'm gonna try my best," the big young man affirms as he sits back down properly. "I can't wait for you to meet him. And him to meet you." Resting his head against the back of that chair, he closes his eyes. Just for a little. "I miss seeing you every day." Still closed. "There's so much we have to do, but still." Faryn adjusts in her chair, unfolding, all the better to turn and face him better and curl right back up, with him as the focus instead of the fire and pots. She rests her cheek against the back of the chair and draws her legs up, watching him settle back in. "I miss you, too. It won't be long, though. They're like children - they grow up fast." She's whispering, in quiet respect as his eyes close. "You could take a nap," she continues, just loud enough to reach him. "Just for a bit. I promise to wake you up. It'd be kind of like...a week ago." "Forever ago," T'mic murmurs. He still hasn't opened his eyes. "When everything smelled different. Where we might've... just a bit. Okay?" Now, he can't suppress the yawn. "If you see a little blue who jumps high," is turning into mumbles, "make sure you wake me up sooner." A light chuckle. "You have my word," she says, but she's grown quieter, quieter, watching. Without his eyes on her, she can lower that brave face, she can gnaw at her lower lip anxiously, trying to read him like a book that's suddenly added chapters. Which, he has. She doesn't try to rouse him though, and has nothing to add; she'll wait for familiar snores, and count the time, because she's promised. |
Comments
Alida (17:18, 22 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
So sweet.
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