Logs:Pretty Annoying
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| RL Date: 9 October, 2015 |
| Who: Quinlys, Silva, Yesia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys is briefly plagued by Silva and Yesia...and that's before they realize they're going to be friends. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 13, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
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| It's wet and miserable outside, and clearly Quinlys has been recently out there: her red hair is sodden and sticking to her neck, and though she's without a towel, she's obviously attempting to make some kind of effort to tidy herself up, standing next to the hearth as she is. Shivering, she stamps one foot and then the other, fingers scraping through damp, lank curls. Someone forgot to tell Silva that being a candidate is WAY MORE work than just being her aunt's little project. But stubborn pride keeps her from admitting she was SO WRONG to say yes to this thing. Instead she's just going to mince her way into the nighthearth, brushing invisible dirt from her clothing. A few steps from Quinlys she pauses, eyeing the other woman. "You look terrible." Quinlys does look terrible: wet and cold and more like drowned rat than her usual, perky self. Which doesn't mean she's pleased by the assessment, turning as she does to eye Silva in a glowering kind of way. "You look terrible, Weyrlingmaster," she corrects, with a press of her lips. "If you're going to maybe end up one of my charges, you are going to have to--" But she's cold, even next to the hearth, and her shiver turns into a shudder turns into a loss of words. A peal of bright laughter prefaces Yesia's appearance, her attentions and hand both held by a stocky brownrider. "No," she tells him, untangling their fingers as she turns into the nighthearth, "I'll see you later. Later, in my weyr, like I said before. I need --" something, something in the nighthearth, because she ducks right in and he doesn't follow. He mouths later at her, but she's not looking. Her something? Klah. Totally worth shunning a willing man. Silva binks for a second when she gets corrected, then flushes a bright red up and into her cheeks. With a bow that would put any master harper to shame Silva is going to do a not-quite-candidate-like show of respect. "Sorry madam. I didn't mean to be offending you as such. I must have missed your knot..." And because hand in hand with being a spoiled brat Silva's also REALLY GOOD at sucking up to people, she casts about for some way to help the older woman. Her eyes pass across Yesia for half second before they're moving on -- oh, there. A towel. Sweeping it up the candidate offers it forth with a flurish. "For you," and she gives another slight bow. Bows are... a little outside of Quinlys' experience, if one is being truthful; she gives Silva a somewhat bewildered glance for the first one, seems to relax a little, and then looks utterly bemused all over again with the second one, even if it does come with a towel. At least she accepts it, and even if all of this means that she misses Yesia's arrival, perhaps that's all for the better. "Thanks," is a little short, but at least she nods, and perhaps that's halfway to approving. "You're--" No, she doesn't know Silva's name. Klah acquired, Yesia turns around with the mug between both hands, her fingers splayed spider-like along the curves so she can look around at who is here. Silva gets a curious look, the greenrider's smile bemused as she studies the candidate, and then who she's talking to. Lips pursed, her study of Quinlys is longer, more critical, and concludes with a very helpful and incidental repetition: "You look terrible, ma'am." Her swallow of klah is deliberate and meaningful, not at all as helpful as Silva's trying to be. A bright sile curls its way onto Silva's lips - achievement unlocked, not-in-trouble. One point. She straightns, tucking her arms behind her back and fidgets in place. One hand manages to catch the very end curl of her hair and twirls it around a finger. "If you don't mind me asking, Madam Weyrlingmaster, why in shards were you outside in that?" Yesia. Great. Plainly, Quinlys' day is going from bad to worse. "Lovely," she says, at least managing to avoid the choicer, and rather less polite, words that may well be hovering about her tongue. "What do you want?" Furious gestures set the towel into motion about her hair, as, without waiting for a reply from the greenrider, she adds to Yesia, "That's my job. Yours too, if you're going to Impress. How do you think you get home at night if you live halfway up the bowl, otherwise?" "Nothing. Why, is the Nighthearth all yours this afternoon? They should put up a sign that it's reserved, but that it would be stupid to use this place when there are nicer ones three seconds away." Another drink. Yesia doesn't go anywhere, taking Quinlys' snippiness with a grain of salt that allows her to lean over to Silvia and stage-whisper, "Don't take her personally." And pitched for Quinlys, with a cheeful smile and lift of mug, "Caffeine?" WELL. Silva is just going to take a step BACKWARDS, moving to the other side of that sofa. Clearing the area if the two decide to duke it out or something. That curl of her hair gets tugged on, as her head tilts slightly sideways. "Well." A moment of silence as Silva considers the words, "Honestly. I hadn't thought about it. I mean, that's like... forever far away." Her eyes blink, and flash towards Yesia. "It's not," says Quinlys, her attention focused on Silva, who is presently annoying her less than Yesia, though it may be a close run thing. "And you should. Dragonriding is not all--" Now she glances at the greenrider. "Swanning around looking pretty and feeling superior, whatever she might imply." Caffeine? No, it's much too late for that. "It sneaks up," Yesia confirms of the hatching. See? She's helping too! Mentions of swanning and looking pretty have a fifty percent chance of landing well with Yesia, and this time Quinlys gets (un)lucky. "It's a lot of that though. I was led to believe you wouldn't even have time for makeup in the morning, but..." Yesia's managed red lips and long lashes, which she blinks for them. "I think pretty people, like us, probably see it differently than girls who ride boy dragons." Silva weighs the two women carefully, her eyes doing a once over on both of them. Quinlys, wet, dirty, surly. Yesia, beautiful, composed, friendly. Very slightly the young woman edges towards the greenrider, smiling brightly. "I love how you have done your lips. I can't find anything quite like it. Isn't it pretty?" Her voice, perhaps a shade too bright, includes Quinlys into this observation of Yesia's lips. "Oh Faranth's ball-sack," exhales Quinlys through gritted teeth. That is the moment when she throws the towel back at Silva and begins to launch herself towards the door. She? She doesn't have time for this. "Right?" asks Yesia, taken in immediately by the compliment. "I had to go all the way to Igen for the color. Well, actually, I went to visit a friend, but Igen has such amazing everything, and their colors --" She's speaking quickly, and only stops when Quinlys stands and throws the towel their direction. Her lips press together hard as she tries to stifle the widening of her smile. "Oh no," lacks sympathy. "You should really dry off and get something warm, you're going to get sick and there are so many eggs on the sands." Silva sighs dramatically when the woman mentions having to go all the way to Igen. A slight pout forms, "So envious." A nearby table gets a Silva leaning against it slightly as her arms cross on her chest. "THAT would be an upside to the dragon thing, I mean, to get to go places." As the weyrlingmaster goes to make her escape Silva lifts up a hand to give a salute, (hey! not a bow this time! someone remembered!) and a cheerful smile. "I hope it isn't too too cold!" The moment Quinlys is gone, Yesia lets that smile light up her face; her bright laughter is this time shared with Silva, and probably follows Quinlys straight down the hall, but Yesia doesn't care. Without a weyrlingmaster distraction, she can turn her full attention on Silva. "I could take you," is considering, slow like she might retract the offer, tantalizing as it is. They could be old friends, the way Yesia reaches out to touch Silva's dark hair, thoughtful. "I think you're allowed to go with a rider." Voila, rider! Right, Silva is just totally going to be taken in by Yesia. She joins her own laughter to that of the greenrider, though it is perhaps a little less real then Yesia's. Reaching upwards she'll readjust her hair, giving her an easier time to touch it. "Oh my word, that would be the most amazing ever." Her eyes are just going to sparkle slightly, "I haven't been able to replace my lip gloss in forever. But I have to do something back." She's all perfect sincerity there, as she bats her eyes at the greenrider. Yesia apparently likes Silva's hair, a lot. Enough that she uses both hands to comb her manicured fingers through and twist it gently, to see how it feels. "I could do so much with your hair," she announces finally, releasing it and then tucking it back into fashionable place, bouncing it a couple times. "Have you ever been to Igen?" Pause. "What's your name? I'm Yesia." Frown. "Oh, and my dragon is Aeaeth. She wants me to tell you she thinks you're very pretty." Eyes sparkling under the compliments Silva's just going to preen for a bit, her smile growing gradually larger. "Thank you! I love yours too. That red. You must look stunning in those darker greens - they just make me look all washed out." Ona hand reaches up for those ringlets of red hair, though she pauses just an inch away for Yesia to say yes to the touch. "Silva," she gives her own name with the slightest of giggles. "Does it curl like that naturally, or do you have to do something?" "It'll be a shame if you Impress," Yesia says casually, once she's satisfied with where Silva's hair has settled, and equally satisfied she's drawn the girl in. Her curls bob with the vehemence of her encouragement that Silva can touch her hair. "I look stunning in everything," she corrects gently, and is patient when she tells Silva, "It curls on its own. I mean, I use curlers to help sometimes, but mostly... You didn't say, have you been to Igen?" One finger curls into a curl and Silva strokes it between her thumb and finger. SO SOFT. "My word, how do you get it so soft? I swear," a hint of longing enters her voice, "they give us sand paper to condition with." With one last forlorn brush of her hand Silva allows it to fall to her side. "Oh, no, I haven't, been to Igen that is. I mean," she sighs dramatically and glances towards the doorway where the Weyrlingmaster has disappeared to, "it could be //so// much worse though, I mean, working for my aunt?" and her voice drops dramatically, "I broke a nail." "They cut your hair," delivers Yesia, a perfect, matter-of-fact bombshell. "Telavi cut mine, even. It was down to here," she illustrates, drawing the blade of her hand just above the small of her back, "but they said it's a danger when you have a baby dragon, and so Quinlys -- the weyrlingmaster -- makes everyone cut it the whole time you're in weyrlinghood." The horrors! "You live here, then? How have I never seen you?" Silva's hands fly to her hair, like someone is approaching RIGHT THEN to cut it off. A woeful look spreads into her eyes, caught as she is between a rock and a hairy place. "Oh no, well.. um... maybe she'll make an exception? Maybe? oh man. This place can be the worst some times." Her lip pokes out in a pout, as she works her way through options. "Oh, I doubt it. Did you see what Quinlys does to hers? She has no respect for anything pretty." Yesia's not trying to make it worse, probably. Silva just deserves to know, right? "If you do Impress, you should just ask Telavi to cut it. She understands. And she's gorgeous, too. Her hair -- you wait, it's so long and thick and blonde." Sigh. Woe. Woe. WOE. Silva's eyes are large now, and she's petting at her hair gently. Good hair. Soft hair. Cue loving music playing all around it. "Well... maybe... I won't? And then it won't matter. But... I can't leave now. This is so much better than working like a drudge. I mean, it's like being a drudge, but at least it's not a drudge?" She sounds more than a little vapid, but seriously. Her hair. Can anyone BLAME her for not thinking straight? "Mmmm," Yesia says, distractedly. Her head tilts to the side slightly, and her smile fades down in shades. "Maybe you won't! Wouldn't that be lucky?" Sure it would, if the cheer with which she says it is to be trusted (it's not). "You come find me on your rest day," she tells Silva. "You can meet Aeaeth. Maybe we can go to Igen, or you can come to my weyr -- I have lots of makeup, and lots of space. You can tell me all about you." "Where are you likely to be?" Silva asks the question, a little too eager to return to the light of someone who can actually understand her. "I would love to meet Aeaeth," because CLEARLY any dragon that thinks she is pretty must be the bomb. "and go to Igen or whatever." "Aeaeth is the green dragon with the pink straps," clarifies the greenrider, ever helpful. "But I'm around. You just have to ask. Maybe the Snowasis?" She doesn't sound positive of it. "You can always ask the watchrider, he can call Aeaeth. We're going to be friends," Yesia (threatens) promises, beaming. "Pink straps," Silva carefully encodes this into her brain, and then nods once, all decisiveness. REaching out she'll totally grasps Yesia's hands in her own, squeezing in excitement. "I am so excited to finally meet someone with sense." "I know how you feel. Trust me." Sincerely, Yesia squeezes back before flashing a brilliant smile. "Try not to let people like Quinlys get you down. It took me a while, but it gets...better." The hesitation could be meaningful if she let it settle; instead, she turns to flounce out, wiggling her fingers in a farewell and a chirped, "Bye!" as she disappears around the corner. |
Comments
Alida (02:01, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
We. Are. ALL. Fucking. DOOMED.
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