Logs:Bad Habits
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| RL Date: 5 June, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Anatolia, Korek, Pavrol |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Family comes calling. |
| Where: Farideh and Roszadyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 13, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Snowing. |
| Mentions: Yuliye/Mentions, Joremy/Mentions, Teoma/Mentions, Mishal/Mentions, Shanris/Mentions |
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| Weeks had passed since Farideh had written a letter to her sister, weeks of hearing absolutely nothing in return. She had all but forgotten about the missive when on a sunny winter's morning an unfamiliar brown bespoke Roszadyth. « Little lady. Got some here says they're for yours. » She was curious, but when she didn't reply to his inquiry fast enough, the brown's drawl reached out once again. « Might take them off me? They sure make a ruckus. » Though she was cautious in her approach of the Igen brown, she was also welcoming, and much humored by his choice of words. « If they say so.. » Farideh was in the process of brushing out her freshly-washed hair when the gold brushed her mind with the barest touch of sunshine over frosted peaks. She was standing on the threshold into the outer weyr, frowning, when her mother swept in in full regalia: voluptuous skirts, furs, in her typical showy style. Farideh was rooted to the spot, gawking. Her mother clucked her tongue, disapproval written across her powdered features. "Who taught you to stare rudely? Come, give your mother a kiss." More from shock than obedience, Farideh walked across the weyr to her mother's open arms, pressing a kiss to the warm, doughy flesh of her cheek. She was still in her mother's lukewarm embrace when her father and uncle rounded the entrance to the weyr, stomping snow off their boots and cursing the cold weather. "Between take them all. Who can exist in such a pi-- ah, Farideh, dear." Korek was a paler, less robust version of his older brother, who looked, at the moment, very bemused by their current state of affairs. Despite whatever it was her mother was saying in terse tones, Farideh disengaged and ran to her father, first, to hug him warmly, while he patted her head and spouted flowery platitudes; his affection was easy and indiscriminate. Pavrol, on the other hand, was more formal in his greeting, though his hoary eyes brimmed with unshed laughter as he held his neice at arm's length, giving her a once over. "My, how you have grown, hen," he replied, his baritone both familiar and comforting at the same time. "Shouldn't I?" she glibbed back at him, ducking under his arms to stand back and study all three of them with her eyebrows drawn sharply together. "Why did you come? Now?" "Teoma got your letter, of course, you silly girl, and as she is busy helping run that ramshackle Hold in place of Shanris, and being a dutiful wife and mother, she couldn't find the time to oblige you." Anatolia was both cool and affronting, as she swirled back and into the weyr, flicking her fingers over this piece of furniture or shaking her head sadly at the state of the floors. "We missed you," Korek said, folding his arms behind him and following in his wife's footsteps. "Whiskey?" was her uncle's response to that, whisking a hand towards the unremarkable sofa. Farideh opened her mouth to say something to her parents, but thought better of it and walked to the sideboard instead, to wrinkle her nose over her (lack of) choices. "I have some red wine, but nothing stronger. Not yet." She twisted around to lifting questioning brows to Pavrol, who was busy planting his bulky form, sans overcoat, on the cushioned seat of the couch. "Wine will do." While she poured wine into four separate glasses, she lent half an ear to her parents squabbling in the background; Anatolia had to critique everything and Korek found all of it equally as fascinating. She had finished the pour into the last glass when two riders shuffled into the weyr, each holding the handle of a familiar, oversized trunk. Farideh almost dropped the wine bottle, but gaped instead. It was one of her fancy trunks from Big Bay, and looked to be filled with-- she wasn't sure, but it was enough to make the two burly men struggle with its weight. They set it down on the opposite side of the couch, the High Reaches' rider looking embarrassed for his intrusion and the Igenite merely looking bored, then they both took their leave. "Farideh," her mother snapped, drawing her back to the present. "You have picked up most disfavorable habits here. Your mouth is open wide enough to catch a vtol." She flounced to one of the chairs, sitting down in a huff and smoothing out her velvet skirts. Pavrol watched in amusement. "Sorry," Fairdeh murmured, turning back to the sideboard, to set aside the bottle. "I wasn't expecting-- you and then that and-- what is that?" Her eyes flicked of their own accord to the ornate trunk, while she doled out the wineglasses. "Your things from home, of course. You are not the Lady you were born to be," Anatolia said, watching her daughter, a bit stiffly and disdainfully. "But you are a goldrider now, a weyrwoman of this-- place, and you will have to dress better than the rest of them." She ended her statements with a flippant handwave, the bangles on her arm jangling with the movement. It was all so overwhelming, enough so that Farideh sat down next to her uncle and took a long drink from her glass. "Drink slowly, dear," Anatolia admonished, with a sigh. Pavrol's arm went around his niece, his fingers lightly tapping her shoulder. He leaned close, conspiratorily. "She is right about one thing. You are a werywoman now. Your life is changing, Farideh." She knew it was supposed to be comforting, but all Farideh could do was blink, trying to force back the sudden urge she had to cry; hearing it from them was altogether different than hearing it from strangers. Anatolia had already started chattering on about the goings-on at Igen. She was going down a list of names that Farideh knew, half of them only as acquaintances, but Farideh hardly heard her over the tumult of her own thoughts. "And the way she looks at him," her mother was saying, sniffing in disdain. "It is hardly appropriate. It is quite unrefined and disgusting. Who does she think she is?" Pavrol's voice was monotone when he spoke, with a certain wryness in his weathered, creased face. "Lady Igen, Anatolia." His words were met with a hard, frozen smile that didn't convey a drop of kindness. That interaction at least gave Farideh reason to smile, if it was behind her wineglass. Something things, even when everything else did, never changed. The tension-charged moment lasted only a breath and then her mother was once again regaling them all with the gossip she'd picked up in months past, most of it pertaining to the Blooded ladies surrounding Lady Yuliye and the atmosphere of Lord Joremy's people. There was no talk of the finances and Igen's instability, but it was good to know that most of the frustration Joremy's people had exhibited was ebbing under the rule of their new Lord. She went on and on about the latest gathers, the fashion trends, and her favorite sweet treats -- the towering cakes, the hollowed out pastries with miniature sugarspun scenes within, and of course, Igen's favorite sweet-and-spicy candies. Farideh thought she had listened, but by the end of her mother's spiel, she couldn't remember much of anything. She was saved from questioning her sanity, again, by her uncle's squeezing of her arm and leaning his head near, to speak in confidence. "Are you happy, hen?" he asked, straight to the point. It surprised her how fast the answer came to her lips. "Yes." He nodded, satisfied with her answer. "Then, it does not matter, does it? What she thinks? What we think?" Pavrol had always been good at reading her moods, even when her mother couldn't. "You have a lot to focus on now, a lot to live up to. After all, it is not every day that a family gets a weyrwoman in the family," he mused, with a wink. Farideh's mouth thinned, her gaze lifting to Pavrol's face. "How do you do it? You've always been so-- so-- and I'm--" She lifted her shoulders, unsure of how to phrase her feelings, but hoped he could decipher them nonetheless. "You are young, yet. You will learn with time. We do what we must, and we must change as the world changes." His gray eyes studied her face, his smile both warm and as fatherly as an uncle's could be. "You are like your mother in a lot of ways-- ah, ah," he held up a hand to staunch her protests, "not in most ways, but you both wear your emotions plainly. Emotion can be a weakness, and you should never wear your weakness when you feel it, only when others need to know that you are more than a leader; that you are one of them, too. Never let them rile you to that point. Never argue, never deny, and meet their accusations with laughter as often as you can. Most importantly: speak less and they will hear you more." "OH, you--" Anatolia stood up abruptly, obviously annoyed by something Korek had been discussing with her. "I will have no more of this. Not here, not--." Her focus settled briefly on her daughter, before skipping to the exit. "You need furniture and proper linens, Farideh. I will send what you need." Then, she simply walked out of the weyr and onto the weathered ledge. Korek, at least, swept low to press a kiss to his daughter's forehead, and clasped Pavrol's arm to help him up from the sunken cushions of the sofa. "Perhaps, hen, you can come to us next time--" But Korek was already heading for the ledge, grabbing his coat where he'd laid it on a vacant chair. Pavrol and Farideh remained, standing in silence as they watched Korek shuffle out into the blustery cold and listened to Anatolia's ranting outside, to their escort rider. "Worry less," were her uncle's parting words, his fingers chucking her under the chin, before he too grabbed his coat and walked out into the snow-piled ledge. Rather than follow, Farideh sat back down after they'd all gone, her hands in her lap, as she stared quite unseeing at flames leaping in the hearth. It had been like a punch in the gut, to see them all here, in her new home, and now-- she keenly felt their loss, a sentiment she shared with Roszadyth without knowing, for the gold's touch was silken and soft, a reminder that she was not so alone. It was with a sigh that she heaved herself off the couch, picking up the full and empty wineglasses, setting them back on the sideboard to be collected later. Later, she would process their coming and going, but for now, there were duties to attend and meetings to sit through; feelings would have to come second. |
Comments
Alida (01:24, 7 June 2015 (EDT)) said...
Nice glimpse of Farideh's 'former' life and how it impacts her...and others.
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