Logs:Middle Ground
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| RL Date: 18 March, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, H'vier |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh and H'vier reach a middle ground. Finally. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 4, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Drex/Mentions, Lycinea/Mentions, Fayla/Mentions, Nimae/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions |
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| The last of the eggs having been laid this morning - including it being a fair-sized clutch for an Interval - it's unsurprising that come mid-afternoon the galleries are swarming with people trying to get a look at High Reaches' new bounty on the sands. There's a few laundresses near the bottom, each making appropriate 'ohh' and 'ahh' sounds for the occasion, or pointing wildly when they notice something they want everyone else around them to notice too. With her peers - of the laundry variety - Farideh's slumped over, elbows on her knees, staring with rapt attention. It's not her first clutch to see, but certainly a clutch of such a size and one of Igen's own bloodline too. She looks like she just got off her shift, or is preparing to go back after her break, with her hair pulled up but messy and her hands freshly reddened from the heat and products of the wash. Reisoth has descended from the ledge above the sands where he's been keeping watch in the sevens leading up to now. And now he's situated at a point between the eggs and the galleries in such a way that he doesn't block anyone's view, but he could intercept any idiot who tried to get to them for whatever idiotic reason they'd have for doing so. As such, the bronze's focus is on the galleries rather than the eggs. H'vier has visited the galleries a handful of times since the eggs first started appearing and he's visiting again now, moving through the first row of seats toward the comfier ones reserved for more important people. Like him, obviously. "Farideh," he greets the laundress as he starts to pass her, pausing for a moment to glance at her peers before adding, "Want to join me?" It's asked with a gesture toward the roped off seats. If the ghost of a weyrwoman past showed up, these people probably wouldn't even notice, and so it's not until H'vier actually speaks the laundress' name that her head snaps up and her eyes fly to the tall dragonrider. "H'vier," Farideh greets, flushing lightly. Her companions are staring, not without a large amount of jealously as his invitation, but the one nearest the brunette elbows her roughly when she initially fails to say more. "Oh. Yes. That would be--" She looks towards the roped off area and bobs her head eagerly, finally getting to her feet and offering the wingleader a tremulous smile. "Lovely." The bronzerider more or less ignores the rest of her companions after his initial glance over them, attention focusing on Farideh as she rises. There's a brief smile returned to her before H'vier continues on, leading the way so he can detach the roping and then return it once the laundress is through. "Thanks for not telling me to fuck off in front of your friends," he says, good-humored, as he moves to take a seat. Though, in that case, he probably would've just extended the offer to the next best-looking girl in the group. "They're not my friends," is her succinct response, eyes touching briefly on H'vier's face before flitting to the eggs once she's within the VIP area. "It's a nice looking clutch. Isn't it?" Farideh sits down next to the bronzerider, legs tightly together, with her hands resting on her knees. "I've only ever seen your last one and one at Igen. I think it was the Weyrwoman's gold. None of them were as big as this one, and the eggs--" She frowns, brow furrowing. "They're colorful." There, her eyes lift to H'vier again and hold, patiently, unwaveringly waiting for his answers. "No?" H'vier asks of the other girls, though it might be more rhetorical than anything, the way he glances back with some interest in their direction. He's probably trying to decide which one actually is the best-looking. But her egg talk has him looking out at the sands and nodding, a proud sort of grin settling on his face. "It is a nice looking clutch. Reisoth's done well for himself. Even if he can't catch the right queen." The bronze, maybe only coincidentally, looks at his rider and the girl, gaze lingering before lifting to track higher through the galleries. "The right queen?" Farideh's brow furrows farther, creating too many creases on her forehead, and her lips compress unattractively; she's thinking hard. "Wasn't his other clutch smaller? It could be--" Some of her confusion abates and her lips semi-quirk up from that terse line. "Niahvth, after all." Her amusement shines through her eyes, which flick back to the eggs after a short time. "Thirteen," he answers in regards to the size of the last clutch Reisoth sired. "Could be. I don't know much about her clutching history. Or perhaps it's a favorable combination of blood." If there was baiting meant, H'vier doesn't really rise to it, even if he gives Farideh a look to suggest he suspects as much. "The senior." That's the right queen. "Igen and Ista has historically had favorable relations." It's a bit off-kilter and accompanied by a whimsical smile, but it seems to be a well-meant compliment for their foreign-bred clutch. "Oh. That queen," Farideh sighs, not even bothering to roll her eyes; the sentiment is there. "Do you want to be Weyrleader that badly? And all the responsibility? And none of the fun? Don't you think K'del does a good job of it presently?" "I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand the desire." Someone who, in his experience, has shown no indication of wanting that sort of responsibility. Or any sort of responsibility. "But perhaps I should go consult the drudges on whether I ought to promote another wingsecond." This probably means H'vier doesn't intend on discussing the subject of Weyrleadership with the laundress, who he must imagine is as equally well-qualified as the drudges would be. "Why wouldn't I?" That assumption has the laundress up in arms, if figuratively, with her slim limbs crossing over her chest. "Maybe I'll be Weyrleader one day," her tone less sure and more miffed than anything. Farideh cuts H'vier an angry look from the side. "You don't have to be so surly, H'vier. All I did was ask a question. Shouldn't I be interested? Aren't we supposed to be friends?" She says it so innocently and with wide eyes to boot, but there can be no mistaking the fact they really aren't friends. H'vier doesn't answer her first question. He must not think it deserves an answer. There's a small, genuinely amused, snort that comes with the rest of what she says. He'll answer that. "I know you think I'm just a big, dumb asshole, but give me some credit, woman." Woman, at least, and not child. "We both know the only reason we're civil to each other is because of Lycinea." And, you know, his own desire to get Farideh back in his bed. But she always runs away when he mentions that, so maybe that's why he's avoiding it now. "Since the first time we've met, I've since rescinded my opinion that you're dumb, H'vier." One finger gets lifted and wagged, but she purposefully doesn't defend the rest. "We could be friends," Farideh hedges, "if you didn't feel the need to insult me all the time." Her eyebrows lift in disdain, before she leans back and twists, turning to stare up at her agitated, fellow launderers, who are clucking amongst themselves and whispering behind their hands, all the while watching H'vier and Farideh interact; more gossip for the day. "Do you like Irianke?" she asks suddenly, turning to face the eggs again. "Good to know," about her not thinking he's dumb, anyway. "But I don't know if we really could be friends. You get upset when I'm attracted to you. You get upset when I keep you at a distance. I'm not sure there's a good middle ground for us." H'vier is purposefully oblivious to anyone in the rows of seats behind them. Basically oblivious to everyone but Farideh, really. "Quite. She's an interesting woman." That or the fact that she'll sleep with him without any sort of coercion. It's a favorable quality in any woman. "Why do you have to do either? Can't you just see me as someone like one of your riders? Someone like Lycinea? You don't try to sleep with her, do you?" Farideh's giving him a long, stern look that encompasses all of her feelings about that thought. "We had a fun time, before-- but it's not like that anymore. I like someone." She sighs and shifts back to staring - this time mournfully - at the eggs, and their sandy home. "She is. She's a strong woman. She's different. It's unfortunate that people are talking about her like she's-- bad, when none of this is her fault," but she's back to slanting him a look, watching for his take of Igen's loaner. "I'm not above fucking my riders," H'vier will point out first. "But you aren't one of them. And I doubt you ever will be. Besides, I have tried to sleep with her. But we've... come to an understanding." Obviously this is not unusual at all and he won't linger on it. "I was upset with Irianke when I first heard. But it's not her fault anymore than it is mine." Which is to say, not at all. So far as he's aware, anyway. Look, they agree on the thing! "What kind of understanding?" Curiosity isn't dulled by H'vier's reticence to continue, rather spurred on by it, with a disapproving sort of frown. "I still don't think Lycinea understands the scope of her actions and taking advantage of someone as immature as she is-- that's a bit much, don't you think?" Her option of him hasn't changed, she's admitted; underscore that asshole bit. But since they're talking about Irianke, Farideh's expressions mellows a bit and her eyes, more green than brown today, lift to H'vier once more. "No. It's not. It's your Weyrwomen." "The understanding that I won't touch her. If anything, she's taking advantage of me at this point. But I suppose it's well-earned." And H'vier can certainly respect that sort of thing. "Anyway, she's better off if people," men like him, "think we're involved, isn't she?" Better the asshole you know? As for the eggs, H'vier grins as he looks at the laundress, "Is she my Weyrwoman now. Here I thought you were trying to be one of us." The smile that slips out is in his favor, but it's squelched beneath a discontented glare. "I am one of you. I'm a laundress, and," Farideh gestures with a hand to the cavern at large, "I live at High Reaches. Azaylia is my Weyrwoman, Nimae is-- not." She crosses her arms for the second time and settles her sulky stare on the poor, innocent eggs that have nothing to deserve such animosity. "Stop trying to read into things. That's not what I meant and you know it." "Good," is all H'vier needs to say about Farideh being one of them, his own attention returning to the eggs. "So who is it that you like? If we were friends, I think it would be my duty to know who to break if he ends up hurting you." Or is that more of a dad thing? He's not going to think about that right now. The change of topic catches Farideh off guard, and her cheeks turning rosy is the result. "I doubt you know him. He's one of those sailors from the storm," she says, nearly breathlessly. "He's part of the crew on one of Lord Devaki's ships and they're just waiting for-- their next ship to be-- finished. I think they'll be leaving soon." And after that, is complete, unnerved silence, where her lips purse and she gazes unseeingly at the eggs. "A sailor, Farideh, really?" H'vier tsks at the girl, but his half smirk betrays his amusement, even in his voice, if she doesn't look at him. "What will you do when he leaves? Please don't tell me you're going to become a port whore." There's just no other way to say that, apparently. Farideh must have been expecting that reply. "I know," she says miserably, coloring brighter. "It's not the ideal occupation, but he's cute? And has been a lot of places? And he's strong and fast?" Those are certainly attributes, but it's on the next sigh that she admits: "I just-- I like him. I do. He gives me a fluttery feeling. More than--" Except his next insult gains a harsh inhale. "I don't know what that is, but I'm not a whore, H'vier, you take that back right now." Still not addressing what she's going to do when Drex does leave. "Oh, relax, woman. I didn't call you a whore. I said I don't want you to become one. Granted. We might get along better if you were." It's worth a moment of thought. "I sailed for a short time," adds H'vier, though he doesn't specifically claim to have been a sailor. But maybe it's close enough to be off-putting. "Would you rather he stayed here?" The brunette's face sours, and she heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Fine," then a flick of her eyes to his face, "You sailed? Where all did you go?" It's a bit of wonder in Farideh's voice when she ask, a sentiment easily shaken. She looks uncomfortable for the first time, lowering her eyes to where her feet are planted on the gallery floor. "I don't know. It seems inevitable that we'll come apart. He's what he is and I'm what I am, and what kind of prospects are there for a future, anyway? Happy endings are only for holders," wrinkling her nose. "Mostly Keroon. Nerat. Southern. Igen and Southern Boll on rarer occasions. Dragons are faster, but it's difficult to maintain a low key presence with them." The bronzerider considers the rest for a handful of moments. "Happy endings don't exist. Not for any of us. Not where other people are concerned, anyway. But." H'vier says the last word and pauses, turning his head to look at the girl. "Search is underway. We can't force someone to accept, of course, but the offer can be made." If she gets what he's saying. It would keep Drex in the Weyr permanently for a time, at least. Indefinitely, if he Impressed. "Why did you need to be low key?" Farideh blinks rapidly and frowns, at H'vier. She might be on the verge of understanding something big about the bronzerider, but she never gets to that point, instead brushing back the wisps of hair framing her reddened face. "You'd ask him? To Stand? So that--he'd stay? For me?" Her expression is, at once, inscrutable, verdigris eyes flying to his face, where they search - for mirth? for sarcasm? It's hard to say her expectation, but it wasn't what he's offered her, if pleasantly so. "Why?" Since she focuses on the rest of what he says pretty well, H'vier doesn't answer her first question. His expression in neutral, but genuine, as she searches his face, but he shrugs in answer. "Why not? I don't lose anything if you aren't going to spread your legs for me anyway. And, who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and he'll Impress a pretty little green and get sent to Igen." The neutrality breaks into a grin. This might be teasing now. "Call it an attempted gesture of friendship." "That's not funny." Farideh glares at him, but relents enough to nod her head in appreciation of his offer; of friendship. "You can ask him. I don't think-- he might say no, and then it won't matter, will it?" She sighs a wearied sigh and scoots to the end of her seat, hands back on her knees. "Thanks for letting me see the eggs from here. I should--" Her eyes sweep backwards, up the stands, to where the other laundresses were, but are no longer. "Go. Someone's got to wash all those sheets," probably in reference to the sudden slew of greenflights. "A name would help," suggests the bronzerider as Farideh starts making motions to be on her way. "I'm sure I can find him, anyway, but there's no point in wasting time if I don't need to." H'vier adds, "Rest assured, none of them are my doing." The sheets, presumably. A single moment of hesitation before the name leaves her lips. "Drex," Farideh says tonelessly, and turns, to weave her way, politely as she can, out of the galleries and back to the laundry; it leaves H'vier with the momentous task of securing a wayward sailor. |
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