Logs:An Unexpected Truce
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| RL Date: 22 May, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Lemos Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: A chance meeting at a foreign gather leads to... an end to hostilities? Maybe? (Probably not.) |
| Where: Lemos Hold |
| When: Day 15, Month 11, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Nimae/Mentions |
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| Lemos' gather is in full swing: a spirited harvest affair centred around an enormous bonfire. Back at High Reaches, the dinner hour has barely started; here, two hours later, the chilly evening has already been turned towards drinks and dancing. Quinlys' gather attendance rather suffers when she's weyrlings in hand, but tonight is an exception; the bluerider can be found sitting atop one of the over-designed wooden chairs the Woodcraft has put on display, watching the dancers with a drink in one hand and a coquettish come-hither glance encouraging attention from those around her. She's attracted a few flies, already, but only off-and-on: she's presently quite alone, and seemingly unbothered by it. It's unsurprising to find Irianke midst the dancers after Reaches hours, unpaired but still enjoying herself with an unfettered grace. Her dark curly hair bobbles with her unrestricted movements of arms up and the haze of the slightly drunk. It's a pity her back is predominately to Quinlys, and she is, in the end, just one of a number of people on the crowded dance floor. It's natural for Quinlys' gaze to be drawn towards the dancers, of course; natural that she follows them, one after another, appraising and appreciating all at once. With Irianke's back to her, it's that much more difficult to actually identify the goldrider; from behind, those bobbing curls are plenty enticing. Finishing her drink, she rises, aiming her steps towards the throng of dancers with a sultry slide to her step. Irianke may just be one of many, but those many are certainly the aim of the bluerider's path. Now would be the perfect time for Irianke to turn, but she doesn't, the goldrider's slender body leaning forward instead. Bubbles-filled laughter rises at something someone must have said, pausing the dancing long enough for her head to throw back and those curls to shake loose of all her pretty little pins. That's when she decides to turn, the remnants of that laughter apparent in the bright, broad smile that then finds Quinlys possibly too close. The immediate, sultry, "Hello," Irianke says dodges the filter that freezes that smile by a beat as recognition sinks in. Wordless now, though the smile is still there, frozen, a hand reaches out to try and grip the bluerider's. Quinlys' sultry smile falters in an instant, one hand lifted and outstretched as if she'd just been about to tap Irianke on the shoulder-- or possibly simply take hold of her and throw herself into the dance. Blue eyes-- so very wide-- match the wideness of her mouth as she attempts to recover equanimity; her hand, at least, is easily taken. Most things are easy when a person is in shock! Then, rather more forcibly than perhaps she intended: "Hello. Irianke. May I have this dance?" The second that is out of her mouth, it rather seems as though she's regretting it, or perhaps shocked at her own blunt decision, but... there it hangs, faintly defiant. "No." Irianke, forever cast in the role of denying Quinlys something. "But," the goldrider's grip on the bluerider's hand becomes more firm and her focus becomes apparent. "You can buy me a drink." Never mind the fact the weyrlingmaster's just come from drinking. "And you can tell me how pretty my eyes are tonight while I admire your dragonriding scars." Mirth and tease dance in the brunette's eyes as she finds her gather composure once more. Whether or not Quinlys inwardly hoped for a demurral, it's likely another thing altogether to receive one-- especially from Irianke-- and her expression falters as a result. But if the goldrider has gather composure, so does the bluerider; she gives her a winsome smile, tugging at that hand as she draws them both back through the crowds. Outwardly, perhaps all seems well to an onlooker. "Your eyes only? It was your hair I was admiring most. What will you have?" she wonders, playing her part. "Wine. Copious amounts of it. Enough for my feet to not touch the ground tonight," declares Irianke, her free hand waving in the air to emphasize the extravagence she's become accustomed to. "And one of those little cake things that will do absolutely nothing for my figure." Baiting Quinlys with the self-critical comment, the older woman slants the red head a quick, flirty look. "And here I thought you were admiring my back." "You present an appealing picture from behind," is Quinlys' answer, delivered without the audible barb that would confirm intent, though that's no guarantee it wasn't intended nonetheless. Flirtatious looks are so easily returned in kind, especially when one has already had a drink or two; Quinlys' are smug, breezily so, as she makes her way towards the tent serving drinks. "Olveraeth didn't mention you were here." Irianke also knows where the drinks tents are, so their steps fall more in line than leader and follower, though who would take lead and who would follow in this situation is an uncertain speculation. "Niahvth honors my wishes to lie low when I'm off the clock. Work hard. Relax when you can, right?" Taller, she lifts the tapestry that keeps the chill out of the drinks tent and gives an unsubtle tug at the hand she holds. "You look lovely tonight." "And, where possible, do so away from the people you take charge of," is agreement, offered somewhat bemusedly, as if Quinlys is uncertain of the good sense in agreeing with her nemesis (if that is what Irianke is). "Thank you," is more certain, as is the grandiose way in which she steps in to the tent and presents her marks to the server in exchange for glasses of his best. "I've decided I need to invest in lacy night clothes so as to have the pleasure of something other than leathers and canvas against my skin on a more regular basis." "I have a weaver I see regularly and a tailor who makes sure my clothing fits and flatters whether a cake or three makes me expand." When their glasses arrive, she reaches for both, relinquishing the weyrlingmaster's hand finally, now that wine and coin makes her less of a flight risk, and offers her one. "Sisal is particularly delightful when it drapes just so." Just so, like the way a lot of Irianke's evening wear drapes low on her back. "I'll get you their names." Quinlys may cast a glance at the tent's exit, as if considering the prospect of escape, but-- no, here she is, standing her ground, and even smiling (if smugly) as she says, "I'd appreciate that, thank you." Her mark pouch tucked away again, she accepts the glass on offer, and raises it, in toast. "To escapes," she suggests. "And being more than our knots." And, perhaps, to temporary truces... if that's what this is. Not about to ruin it by talking any shop talk, Irianke still looks upon Quinlys with an inscrutable look -- that kind of expression where it seems she wants to say something or be a little sad or something other than what the bright smile on her lips might express. She doesn't go there though. "Do you visit gathers far far away often? Before Olveraeth? After?" Aware of that expression, if likely not what it actually means, Quinlys straightens her shoulders ever so slightly, maintaining her smile with practiced ease. "More, now, than I did in those days. I enjoy the freedom of it, especially when I have weyrlings, or newly graduated weyrlings. I like--" She breaks off, as if changing her mind on what she wishes to say. "I like meeting new people. And you?" "Trader born and bred and Impressing under Nimae didn't quite cure me of my wanderlust." Irianke finally takes a sip of her wine and expels her appreciation of it in a low mmmmmmm. "You would think being Weyrbound for three turns would make me forget what I was missing but," the, now, non-weyrling rider shrugs, a careless smile brighter now, "You can never truly tame a disreputable trader. I play pretend well." Quinlys hesitates over her answer, focusing on her wine as if this will cover for her lack of easy comment. "A person would never guess," is what she finally seems to decide upon. "Excepting your wanderlust, of course. I imagine most of the weyr is aware of that." It may be that she regrets the emphasis there, because she adds, quickly, "Are traders as gossipy as weyrfolk tend to be?" "Gossip?" Irianke feigns not understanding at all, but then laughs. "We know how to keep secrets, but gossip? It's only gossip if someone's trying to hide it. If who I sleep with is of interest to people, doesn't it say more about them than it does about me? Good wine." A breath's silence. Then a tease, "Surprisingly good company tonight." Quinlys' expression is considering as Irianke answers, her mouth not quite holding the smile that had been lingering there, though it's equally not a frown. Her glass half lifts in acknowledgement of the wine, but that tease? That cuts it off, her expression tightening another notch. "I did say," is her answer, deliberately mild, "that it was not you I had a problem with." "I know." Finding her tease falling short of its mark a levity, Irianke returns to her wine, slow sips. "Besides, you like my hair and I think you are an excellent weyrlingmaster. Another?" Where did all her wine go? Quinlys seems genuinely unsure how to take that: a compliment? Plainly, she hasn't been expecting it, and the array of emotions that cross her expression cross the gamut before behind hidden behind the draining of her glass. "Thank you," is what she says, a statement that could answer at least two of those statements. A hand lifts to signal a second round, a mark piece contained between two fingers. "And then we'll dance and pretend we don't hold weighty responsibilities on our shoulders." Irianke passes the mark piece, places her order, and waits for wine, more wine, and dancing. Bffs? Probably not. Extended truce, possibly. |
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