Logs:Battle of the Bitches
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 10 July, 2015 |
| Who: Jo, Yesia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Jo and Yesia test one another's mettle; guess who loses? |
| Where: Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Edyis/Mentions, Jounine/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Feel free to edit! |
  |
With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. In the late evening, this small and cozy space seems to be the perfect hangout for the shadows and denizens of the Weyr. Jo has claimed the small round table with her flask, a plate of bread and some sheets of hide for her to write on. Since there's some heat in the room, the convict rider forgoes the black leather jacket draped over one of the nearby chairs, letting her scarred arms and attached knives to her pants be shown open and free as she busies herself writing. Yesia's just passing through, in that disinterested way she has. With nobody and nothing overt to keep her eyes and hands busy, she's resorted to what is not a nervous tick, but a vanity: her red curls are longer now, long enough that she can braid them together without looking like she's got a rat tail. It's something she does without looking, beelining as she is for the savory scent of the pot that simmers over the fire. She spares a glance for Jo, automatically, but apparently doesn't recognize her with her clothes on. Nope, instead, she takes up a bowl and begins ladling her supper without the hassle of the cooks in the living caverns. Jo seems used to being part of the environment for some folks, so it's probably with relish that she watches the now-familiar weyrling form sweep by her with barely a glance. She chews the bread absently as she takes in her form and the way she moves before there's a deliberate clearing of her throat as she makes a show of returning to her work. With casual flare, "Surprised ya didn' notice me this time with my tits bare," is her greeting as it were. The clearing of throat has a single effect: Yesia turns to look sourly at the room at large, and is muttering something about getting sick again as she turns around to locate a spoon. Her hand freezes when Jo speaks in that recognizable drawl, and there is a visible moment where she must reorient herself and her demeanor. When she responds it's with cool indifference, "If you were in here with your 'tits out'," she grimaces at the expression, "I'd go tell Jounine." "As if you've never done anythin' inappropriate in public," Jo counters, ignoring the sour note in Yesia's voice. "It's Yesia, right? Think I vaguely remember yer name'n only cuz my blue seems to show an interest in yer girl." Writing stylus marks something out on the hide as she speaks, only glancing over at her to gauge her reaction. "I haven't!" Yesia says, sounding annoyed and affronted. She tosses her plait over her shoulder and snatches up the spoon, stuffs it into the full bowl she holds in one hand and tucks the free hand under her elbow, betraying her discomfort. "It's Yesia. And you're Jo. And -" She winces. "Tacuseth. Aeaeth says he's very nice." There's a beat, lest Jo take that as compliment, "She's got poor judgment." Leaning back and away from her work, there's a click of her tongue against teeth in a sound pity. "Well ya should get that corrected immediately, then," Jo says in a bland tone, making it sound like this was Serious Business. "What would the other weyrlins' think? Yer own dragon?" Leaning forward and lowering her voice to a near whisper, "Ya might get the ominous label of....'One with Stick up the Ass'." Her voice back to normal in a pinch, "Yeah, Jo," she continues on, back to her work. "It's not everynight I get someone bargin' into my weyr. It also sounds like Aeaeth at least, knows what's good for her." She seems to be taking it as a compliment, anyway. "I still care about what they think about as much as I care about what you think, as good friends as we are." The sarcasm drips like molasses, her expression pert, her chin lifted so her nose can be in the air in such superior fashion. Yesia's next is strained. "I heard you're the sort who has someone barging into your weyr everynight," the weyrling counters, then recoils and catches herself, somehow. "I'm sorry, I was tired, and I didn't realize I wasn't at Edyis' ledge. Akluseth...I don't know why he thinks Aeaeth and I care. He could have called Jorrth, or even Neianth. It's like she was trying to piss me off." As for her lifemate? Yesia shakes her head. "She doesn't." "We could be," Jo levels right back, matching fired sarcasm with wit. "Friends, that is. I can always use 'nother notch in my bedpost when the need arises." Which, since it feeds right into Yesia's next about weyr barging, the convict rider is sending her that predatory sort of grin with a wry "As in, I shouldn' have someone bargin' into my weyr every night?" The apology given has her waving a hand away at it. "Ya can stop by anytime, darlin'. Just leave the snobbery on the ledge. What's the deal with ya'n Ed?" As for lifemates indeed, there's a snort given on Aeaeth before she quips back, "'Course ya'd think that." "Doubtful," the greenrider snaps right back, annoyed. "I wouldn't be caught dead with a criminal. I can't tell if that's worse or better than a pirate." The return to Edyis as a conversation topic makes Yesia's pretty face scrunch unpleasantly. "I don't like her. She doesn't like me." Simple. "I can see why she's so terrible now, though. Hanging around people like you." "As if ya know anythin' 'bout me, lil' girl," Jo cuts right back, studying the weyrling greenrider now with idle interest. "If I'm so dangerous, then ya should be watchin' how ya talk to me." The muscles in her arms shift as she moves, the convict rider slowly getting to her feet as she idly spins the writing stylus with one hand. Approaching her, "In fact," she says in a low drawls as she makes a slow look over her, "if I get any notion in my head, it's girls like you I have the most fun turning." Stepping close to her, "And I ain' Ed, darlin'," she adds with a slight smile. "Playin' bitch won' work with me." "I know you're a convict. And that a dragon doesnt change if you're likely to steal from people, or kill them with a --" Yesia cuts herself of with a squeak when Jo rises, cutting a look for the door. That she doesn't run says something for her confidence that Jo won't kill her there, but maybe it shouldn't. As Jo closes the distance, she retreats, encouraged by that low drawl, the threat in it. She makes it as far as the hearth - because she didn't make it far from there to begin taunting the bluerider - and holds her breath when Jo gets close. "Leave me alone," she says carefully, probably looking for a knife, or for someone to walk by the door that she can call to. "Pretty lil' head, listenin' to rumors," Jo says in a sing-song voice, still closing the distance. "Ain' gonna tell ya which ones're true, which ones aren'." Dark eyes cut towards the door after Yesia's does, meeting her gaze with raised brows before she stills the stylus in her hand. "What, think I'm gonna shank ya right here?" she asks low, the slight mockery in her voice. "Either I'm a slut or I'm a killer. Make up yer mind." She stays right there in her personal space a breath longer before there's an abrupt cheery smile on her face and a, "Bet I can guess yer life-story before Impression, and I know yer ain' weyrbred, by attitude alone," she gives, stepping back to lean her butt up against the table, facing her. At least she's not in her personal space anymore! "Wanna hear it?" Yesia's mouth works quicker than her common sense, apparently. "You can be both," is under her breath, not because she doesn't want to be heard but because she seems to have lost a little force. When Jo takes a step away and leaves her alone, after a fashion, she whooshes what's left of her breath out in a sigh and it is suddenly okay to breathe again. "I don't," she says, still eyeing Jo like she's a carnivorous predator. Eventually she pushes away from the hearth entirely, her bowl tucked close like it might shield her. "I don't." And the door's free, but she's still listening, the foolish girl. "Could I?" Jo hears it, pausing as if the question is worth merit before a little shrug is given. "Mm." She gives nothing away, choosing to study the weyrling instead as the stylus in her hand takes up its spinning once again. Then after a few breaths, "When I lived in Keogh, there was this group of girls that would pick on me'n make my life frustratin' every change they got," she relates, her tone so leisurely free that as if they were previously talking about life in a Hold rather than tense moments. "They were pretty like you, 'course. Had more rank than my own family did. They all had their mothers to dote'n wash their hair and dress'em up pretty'n make'em look as feminine as a Lady Holder. I didn' have the same privilege, see. My mama wasn' around when I grew up so I was raised by my brothers'n my father. I didn' get to play dress-up like they did'n they mocked me for it. I reckon, since I left, they even married well. Spent many turns wantin' to be like them with their narrow views of folks'n life. Stiffed their noses up at anyone they thought beneath'em." Regarding her with interest, "That's you, ain' it? One of 'em types of girls with the charmed life, thinkin' yer the shit?" It's almost rhetorical, even. Yesia's eyes narrow at Jo as she launches into a tale of her past. Their past, ostensibly, but half way through it Yesia starts shaking her head in derision. By the end she's started to chuckle. When she looks up at Jo, it's with what can only be perceived as victory in her eyes. "Wrong," she says sharply, pressing for the satisfaction, "Just like Ed. Think you know it all. My dad works in the mines at Crom. And my mom makes jewelry, and we never had much. They still don't, because even Journeymen don't get paid enough when the mines might fall and kill them if they hit something wrong. My mom taught me how to do my hair, yeah, but mostly I liked to help her make things. It was fun. And I was actually kind of nice, and happy, I think. I had some friends, but the girls who were really popular didn't let anyone hang out with them, because they didn't think more than six of the boys in the hold were worth marrying and they couldn't risk it." She frowns bitterly at Jo. "I came here because I didn't want to go to the crafthall. I should have gone when I was younger, but my family...I didn't want to, that's all. And when I got here, I thought it would be filled with people like you, dragonriders are so big and scary and secret, I thought, and I'd have to toughen up or I'd get made fun of. So I did. And now I'm a bitch, because they thought I was just being mean when --" She stops abruptly. "I don't owe you any explanation." "Don' you know it all, too?" Jo counters, not the least bit moved by Yesia's derision. "Here you are, standin' on the other side of the room cuz ya think I'm goin' gut ya for all to see. As if ya know my life. Doesn' feel so great when it's in reverse, does it?" It's equally bitchy, the way it's all delivered back at her, but the next is given more neutrally: "So we both got fucked in life. Imagine that. When what?" she prompts, ignoring the comment on owing explanation as she folds her arms. "Nothing," she snipes angrily. "I'm going." It's a rehash of bursting into Jo's weyr, but this time Yesia's anger is flanked by something else, something a little more genuine. In the dim light, she might be on the brink of tears as she pivots away to start for the door, stopping only long enough to put her untouched supper on the table. If she doesn't make eye contact, she can get away, surely. When Yesia turns away, Jo seems to bite back frustration as she states, "That how ya solve everythin', by runnin' away? Ya hear somethin' ya don' like, so yer gonna go? 'Cuz maybe ya met yer match? A real bitch would stand right here'n fight back." Stepping towards her, "Turn around." That offer to make eye contact, and, it's not quite an order despite the way it's spoken. Yesia stops, but she doesn't turn around. "I don't want to," she says, sounding suspiciously meek. Suspiciously like her throats constricted to hold back her tears. She shifts when she feels Jo come closer, and her arms cross -- not defiant, over her chest, but protective around her middle, like a child. She is a child, really. "You win. Congratulations." Jo stops behind her, watching the set of her shoulders and the constriction of the voice in her throat. After a lengthy silence, "The girl before me is much more real than the one ya pretend," she notes even, all provoking traces gone. "The one whose father worked the mines is a far more interestin' person to me. I can see right through ya, darlin'." Making her observation, she quietly repeats, "When what?" "When I was scared of them." She's definitely crying now. That's almost certainly why she stays in the dim lighting of the nighthearth instead of going into the hall, where someone might see her on their casual traversing of the halls. Yesia sniffs, once. Again about a minute later. "I thought they'd all -- I'm just from Crom, and nobody, and they're all here. Only Paz was from a Hold too." Jo still remains hard, but at least her tone is gentler as she states, "Fuck'em, Yesia. Ain' nobody has cause or reason to judge ya here. Whether they were goin' to say shit or not." Moving to flank her side, "If yer gonna be a bitch," she states low, "don' be it outta fear, darlin'. Be it 'cuz that's who ya really are. 'Cuz someone like me's gonna come'n tear it outta ya if it ain' really there, every time." Hand dips into her pants and pulls out a small square cloth, passing it to her without looking her way as she says, "If a lowly, slutty ex-con like me can survive this place, ya will too without givin' a shit what anyone thinks of ya," she offers in a tone of truce, her words frank and more her. Yesia accepts the kerchief just in time to avoid wiping her eyes on her sleeve, which is the biggest giveaway of a breakdown. Her silence means she's listening, and the solid way she stares at a spot on the wall means she's too embarrassed to look Jo in the eye even when the taller woman flanks her. She's not scared now, though; Jo's given herself up as something other than what Yesia expected, thought she knew. Such as it is. "It's not that easy. Maybe for you, it is, but we're not the same." "Yeah, we're not," Jo is quick to agree on them not being the same. "You have it easier. At least yer ain' a criminal." She borrows Yesia's word for her with just a touch of brazen amusement - as if she's taking ownership of the very word. "Anyway, have ya really checked out the folks 'round here?" she adds more comically, turning from her to return to the table - perhaps to give Yesia her space to compose herself. "There's some pretty fucked up folks here, darlin'. Yer nowhere near the worst. Normal's overrated, anyway." She drops into her seat with a sigh, looking over something she had written. "There's one guy that deliberately hunts tunnelsnakes just for their shedded skin. Who knows what he does with it. I'd like to think he goes and decorates his weyr with'em, but, either case, he owns his weirdness." "Gross," intones Yesia, but she manages to snort first, betraying herself. "I don't want to be weird. I want to be normal. I want to feel like I came here and it's where I can stay, because Aeaeth loves it here and I don't. I even showed her my memories of Ista, all the water. She said this is where we have to stay, because...I don't know. She never says why." Yesia finishes wiping her eyes, maybe her nose, and holds the cloth back out to Jo. "It matters to me, what people think." Taking the cloth back and pocketing it before she steps away, "If it matters to ya so much, then why close yerself off like I notice ya do?" Jo easily asks back. "Deliberately rubbin' folks the wrong way won' win ya any friends. The way I act? I really don' care what anyone thinks of me." Pause. "For the most part." Pause again. "In various degrees, dependin' largely on the person." Right. Shaking her head, "Look I ain' try'na...really, I just say all that to say don' be quick to judge someone on the surface. Even if someday ya'll end up bein' a notch on my bedpost." Because Jo is Jo, in the end. "And it's okay that this place don' feel like home to ya yet. Took a long time for it to feel like home for me, too. Some days, still..." "Because when I'm nice," Yesia says, in a tone that does come naturally, like Jo should have figured it out on her own, "people think I'm up to something. And then they're mean to me first. And then I'm bitchy to them--" Her pretty mouth purses at Jo's declaration, and she says, "I don't like girls." In bed, she means, certainly. So it can only be innocence, as pure as snow, when she says, "Tacuseth told Aeaeth you could help fix our ledge. It's always filled with water." "Then they're the asses, not you," is Jo's assessment of any exchanges with people. The declaration draws one of her winsome smiles, the older woman naturally cocky as she boldly answers to that, "Ya haven' tried me." Clicking her tongue against her teeth at the last before there's a low, ominous chuckle, "I bet," she just can't help but to say first. "I can stop by'n take a look at it. See if my skills prove up to the challenge." Oh, doublespeak, but at least the convict rider keeps a straight face as she says it. Somewhat. "And if they're asses, I shouldn't have to be nice to them," Yesia reasons, which...well. There's the problem with how she interacts with people, plain as daylight. "Maybe," the girl says of Jo's offer. It's still totally innocent. That ledge really, truly has issues. It smells awful. "You can come by, some day. I think Tacuseth's already visited her once. Or some other blue." This perplexes her. She wipes her face again with her sleeve this time, even though she seems to have mostly dried up. "I'm trying to tell people when I'm wrong that...well. I'm sorry I called you a criminal. And a slut. An..d a murderer." Yesia's logic draws an amused smile from Jo as she starts to collect up her jacket and shrugs it on. "That is true," she seems to agree with that logic. On the ledge, "I doubt Tacuseth has," she says on visiting, "but have Aeaeth call for him sometime. If we're around, we'll drop by." She pockets the flask and the sheets of hides into her jacket before she slides the writing stylus above one ear. Picking up the remaining pieces of bread last, Yesia's last gets a pause from the convict rider before she walks by her to deposit her food. Turning to face her abruptly, "But I am a criminal'n a slut'n a murderer. Allegedly." With Jo, there's really never a straight answer from her, that teasing smile on her face seems to project. "Yer ain' the nasty Keogh girl I alluded to," she adds in turn. Whatever reaction Jo's going for, Yesia doesn't take it seriously. "Alright," is of Tacuseth and, "Sure, but you're a rider," for the rest. If that's them coming up on even ground at the end, Yesia will take it. And she'll wait for Jo to go before she turns back into the nighthearth, to find her abandoned bowl and take it to the newly vacated table, where she'll finally eat her supper in peace. Jo seems to take Yesia's return answer in stride, at least on the surface. There's a soft snort to that, lips pinched to the side a bit in the thoughtful silence before she turns and heads out of the room. In her wake, she leaves a wry, "See ya 'round, weyrlin'." |
Leave A Comment