Logs:Sticky Decisions
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| RL Date: 18 June, 2016 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Silva, Aidavanth, Zaisyreth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Nabol Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: Neither logic nor sweet rolls can sway Silva's resolve. |
| Where: Meadow, Nabol Hold |
| When: Day 28, Month 13, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Drex/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions |
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| The people here know what to do in the event of inclement weather. A thick tent is up, with heated braziers all about to keep the guests warm. A drudge stands at the door taking coats as people enter, as it is too warm for them within the gather tent. Space has been cleared near the middle for dancing, while those of importance mingle here and there. Silva comes late, actually, to be more specific, Silva wasn't invited but she's here and since no one is asking for invitations she's just going to act like she belongs here. Her grace has always been that just-too-pretty-pretty, a kind of fluffyness and prissyness that floats about her on the fluffs of her curly hair. Tonight there is an edge to her look though. She's wearing a tight-bodiced black dress, cut up the side and lacking any pretense of sleeve. Her hair has been firmly controlled, with half of it done up in braids, while the other half is allowed to cascade over her shoulder and one one eye. Even her movements have that sharpness as her eyes wander looking purposefully for something. Among the public figures doing their mingling duty, Jocelyn gravitates from one equally notable visitor to the next, keeping her greetings short - and if not exactly sweet, at least stiffly polite. Rather than being pulled into her usual, severe twist for formal occasions, her bright hair has been pinned into a neat little bun just at the nape of her neck, with sections left looser near the front to sweep artfully over her temples. Dressed in her best High Reaches blue, and certainly warm enough thanks to the heaviness of the fabric, the sharpness to her movements have everything to do with impatience, unlike Silva's purposeful ones. Turning away from her latest exchange of Turnover wishes and greetings, she moves to acquire a drink from a passing server, eyebrows lifting faintly as she watches the arrivals and departures - and lifting higher still once she catches sight of Silva. That dress. Pale eyes narrow before the goldrider collects a second beverage and moves to intercept. "Silva, " once she's within conversational range, "you look like a woman on a mission." The cup that's offered to her former classmate? A warm, spicy cider, much like her own. This particular gather, out of all the turnover gathers has been targeted for a reason, and that reason stands at the far side of the tent. It's a knot of younger sons, the spares the holders breed up just in case something happens to the first born. The kind that get into trouble if they're not watched carefully. Silva had started to pick her way over there, disdaining any other greetings she got along the way, until Jocelyn settles herself in her pathway. Silva's wearing dark eyeliner, only adding to the edge of her image as she stops and looks coolly at the goldrider. "Jocelyn. I am simply meeting some..." her gaze flicks over to the would-be troublemakers, then back to Jocelyn, "Acquaintances. I see you are doing your duty as a weyrwoman tonight." There's a hint of harshness in the way she says the word duty. A glance briefly flicks in the direction of the young men; a purse of her lips later: "Acquaintances." Jocelyn repeats the other's word with no small measure of skepticism, considering the brunette over the rim of her steaming cup. "Do you even know their names?" A little crease forms at her brow for the tone Silva throws into the word 'duty, ' but her expression remains even. "Happy Turnover to you, too, " she says wryly after a beat, studying the bluerider carefully. "Have you had a drink yet tonight?" "Do I have to know their names?" Silva shoots the words back. She's so stiff in the way she's standing, as if compensating for something serious that's bubbling just under the surface, and only reflected a a shimmer of uncertainty in her eyes that an astute eye might pick up on. A step closer, towards Jocelyn, but also toward those in the back, brings the bluerider close enough for the smell of her breath to reach the golderider. The smell of alcohol hangs there, even though Silva defensively says, "No, I just arrived." "So you don't actually know them, " replies Jocelyn with a note of satisfaction, pushing the extra mug of cider she's holding toward Silva as she closes some of the distance between them, particularly as the smell of some spirit or another wafts forth with her defense. More quietly, a trifle warily: "I know you hardly consider me to be a friend, but as someone who does have your best interests in mind - is this a Zaisyreth-approved venture?" Silva rolls her eyes upwards, but it would look really poorly on her if she didn't take that mug of cider. Her hands wrap around it and another crack shows in her act, her fingers shake minutely. She's not nearly as confident as she would like to pretend she is. At the mention of her dragon Silva's gaze flashes back to Jocelyn. "Zaisyreth." Carefully. "Supports my ability to make my own choices." Each word is said as if bitten off, and carries a practiced tone. "You should, of course, make your own choices, " Jocelyn agrees easily enough, with only the slight thinning at her mouth to indicate that she's seen what's slipping through Silva's veneer. "How about a sticky bun to go with the cider before you join your, " dry, "acquaintances? Surely you like these little cinnamon-sugary things." And look, there's a selection just over there, to which she nods expectantly. "Most people seem to. I do, certainly. They - can be of help, sometimes." "Of course I should." Defensive tone there, as Silva takes her eyes away from Jocelyn like she can't quite bring herself to look into the goldrider's eyes for very long. She'll even take a sip of the cider, before she rolls her shoulders in a semi-elegant shrug. "Fine. I don't see how they could help, I mean, they're just a bit of sugar." She'll even lead the way towards the sticky things, eyes latched on those acquaintances over there. Their voice levels are rising, and each holds a cup in their hands. A few have that tell-tale flush of well-on-their-way to drunk on their cheeks. Jocelyn, surprised when Silva begins heading toward the selection of sweet-smelling buns, is quick to follow in the other's wake, particularly as one of the small-talker-extraordinaires across the way finishes his conversation with a member of Lady Nabol's staff and looks as if he's ready to take a step in her direction. "You can't tell me that you've never found a bit of sugar to be helpful at times. I know I'm not the only one who raids the dessert trays while I'm on my courses." The briefest of glances also gets spared for Silva's would-be companions, and the step she takes up to the bluerider's side once they're in front of the sugary objects in question finds her purposefully turned so that their view of the younger rider might be blocked, however temporarily. "I like the ones all but smothered in glaze, " she confides, "but the ones on that side with the chopped nuts on top have always been tempting, too." "I don't want to get fat." Someone with Silva's build can manage that pretty easily, and when she reaches out for the sticky bun it's really just to pick at it. None of it travels upwards to her face. Looking up her gaze is filled with Jocelyn instead of the men she had intended to look for, and a flit of anger splashes on her features. "What are you doing Jocelyn." A question, but with the flatness of tone that equals suspicion. Jocelyn makes a disagreeable noise, selecting one of the plumpest buns that's indeed all but covered in melted sugar. "If we keep running throughout our lives as much as we did when we were weyrlings, that shouldn't happen." She's mid-chew when Silva's suspicious inquiry is voiced, so there's a bit of a lull before her answer comes on the heels of another pull of cider; "Trying to ensure that you're making decisions with a clear head. If you can honestly say that nothing would make you happier than going over there and letting those men paw at you to usher in the new turn, I hope you do enjoy your evening." There's a shift in her expression, a brief softening around the eyes and the set of her mouth. Low, "I thought it'd be easier to just - get it over with, myself. That's what I ultimately chose to do, but it didn't make me feel good - or better - about the whole thing. It didn't help me to forget anything, and it certainly didn't compare to - experiences with someone who cared." At a more normal volume, "Sometimes the sugar helps. These really are nice." Too nice, her tone implies, to pick at and not actually eat. There are all sorts of retorts that go onto Silva's tongue regarding the issue of fatness in riders. But there is a more important point which spills from Jocelyn's lips, and it freezes the younger woman into stillness not unlike that of a deer in the gaze of a predator. Her face goes through several colors, first white under her make up, then a flush of bright red. There's no way she could even attempt to look at Jocelyn, but she does put down that bun careful-careful. This would be a good moment to choose her words carefully, but instead they fall out. "If I'm going to be called loose, then I might as well be loose." The line of Jocelyn's lips thins even further, but her next words are deliberately modulated into an even tone, even as she makes to steer them a step or two away from the sweet buns and potentially curious ears. She's displeased, but that displeasure isn't directed to her former classmate, for whom she gentles her voice. "You are not loose, and anyone who says so is clearly addled in the head. Who said that to you? Silva." Silva puts out her own hand, stopping them from steering her way and keeping her stance there by the table. "No." She steps backwards away from Jocelyn, and towards that knot of young men. "I wasn't. But if that's what it is, then that's what I'll be. By choice. If I get drunk and end up in one of their beds, whatever." The words come like she's psyching herself up just by saying it. "That stupid sea-man was right about one thing. I'm not good for much, but I can at least do that." "So you're going to make your own decisions, except for the part where someone else just decided that you're going to be loose." One of Jocelyn's boots taps under her skirts, although the movement barely registers in the heavy material. "Not good for - shells, Silva, you were the first among our class chosen to be weyrling wingleader. Zaisyreth obviously sees great potential in you, or have you forgotten that he chose you that night?" Discovering the identity of who elected to insult the brunette is still apparently on her list of priorities, as her eyes narrow after that epithet comes to light and she presses with some suspicion, "What stupid sea-man?" To Zaisyreth, Aidavanth is enjoying herself on the fire heights with the other visiting dragons this evening, but she withdraws her attention from them to reach for her brother and friend, a sweep of hazel heralding her presence. « Do you have an image of the - » A pause. « Stupid sea-man? » Zaisyreth's mind is stormy today, clouds above swirling to obscure the savannah below as the grasses whip against the bite of the wind. Chimes clang from within the ancient boabab their wooden echos seeming to warn of danger. « He was the mate of Roszadyth's. » (To Aidavanth from Zaisyreth) Jocelyn, quietly: "If it doesn't matter one way or the other, why did you try so hard to 'do it right' - or to dress so daringly tonight? Seems to me that if it truly didn't matter, you'd just be here to have fun for you regardless of what some ill-informed person said." In-and-out goes the focus of her eyes briefly, and the set of her jaw firms afterward before it drops to expel a low breath. Meanwhile, that sticky bun is getting cold fast. "I'm not here to stop you from - finding yourself, or whatever you think this little quest of yours is going to accomplish. But I don't want to see someone with a lot of potential wake up tomorrow morning and find that her respect for the pretty young lady in the mirror who has the capacity to do some good is diminished." Now, now she'll take another bite of that cinnamon treat, expression unable to be discerned. Do dragons grimace? There's a mental one from the orange-gold, who bobs a comforting feeling in the blue's direction on a ripple of subsequent thought. « She does want what's best for her. » Jocelyn and Silva, respectively. « You'll make sure she stays safe, Zaisyreth. » There's no question there, only a matter of fact. (To Zaisyreth from Aidavanth) "You know what, this isn't useful. Thank you for caring, but I'll make my own decisions." Turning on one heel Silva sets her shoulders - and her cup of cider to one side and fixes her attention on the group of boys. She shakes her hair to be just so, and then strides forward with all the false confidence she can muster. It'll look real enough to the half-drunk young men. They split when she approaches and Silva will just insert herself into their company without a backward glance. Rain could fall from the swirl of clouds above, but this isn't that kind of storm. Instead lightning lashes across them, brightening below for a bit, before it dissipates into malcontent gray again. « I will take her home when she decides. » There is a beat though, as the chimes below echo their lonely warning, « She did not wish that until morning today. » (To Aidavanth from Zaisyreth) And Jocelyn silently observes Silva's acting skills as she throws herself into the company of the cluster of young fellows, brow creasing into a frown even after she's turned away and stuffed the rest of her baked good into her mouth. What concerns she may carry get smoothed away as someone passing offers duties to High Reaches, and the goldrider hastily goes in search of a napkin before resuming her grip-and-grin rounds. To Zaisyreth, Aidavanth takes those words into consideration, passes them on so that her human half might retain them for her. « Tell us how she is tomorrow, » she requests before attempting to distract him in pleasant chatter about their respective weeks until Jocelyn decides that it's time to leave. |
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