Logs:Prince Not-So-Charming and Fieryragerella
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| RL Date: 14 December, 2014 |
| Who: Lycinea, Weylaughn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lycinea fulfills her teen girlfriend duty to Farideh by interrogating Weylaughn. |
| Where: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 7, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Mishal/Mentions, Yewlani/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: (Teen) anger (angst) and teenage-girl-violencing. |
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| Records Room, High Reaches Weyr Books. Scrolls. Bound hides. Maps. If it's a record pertaining to the Weyr, it's likely to be in this roughly oval room with its floor-to-ceiling cherrywood shelves, its multitude of slots for scrolls, and its wide drawers for materials that shouldn't be rolled up or folded. A scribe is usually on duty at the tall desk up front with its good view of the room, and is able to help visitors find what they're looking for via the big bound index on its rotating stand. Past the desk, several tables stand in neat rows for note-taking, each stocked with glowbaskets, scrap hide, paper and pencils. Additional lighting is provided by a many-armed wrought-iron light fixture, its glows gleaming through luxurious glass containers in fluted shapes instead of baskets. To one side of the room, a gap between two sets of shelves outlines where another set once stood, now replaced by a tapestry-covered aperture. Peeking behind the tapestry reveals another cavern, this one likewise full of shelves, but occupied by only a few boxes of older records and a somewhat musty air of disuse. As well, two narrow but solid doors are locked when the room is unattended and a discreet staircase provides direct access from the Weyrleaders' weyrs.
Two can play the unobtrusive game. Lycinea has turns of experience at being unnoticed and unnoticeable. Today, her hair is hidden under a kerchief and she smells of the lunch spread in the kitchen. At least she's washed her hands and splashed some water on her face before coming, else she might be more noticeable for the evidence of her morning shift. Perhaps it shouldn't surprise Weylaughn, although it might be unnerving at any rate, that the kitchen aide steps into his personal space as he finishes the current stack. "We need to talk." With the proximity and the words, one might easily think this romantic or foreboding or both, if they weren't practically strangers. Unnerving? Never. But, then Weylaughn's a peculiar case indeed - one need look no further than the woman who raised him to know that. Sudden intrusions into his personal space are expected at this point. He's distracted momentarily with the task of needing to straighten a few books - and then the girl makes herself known. Those four words transmute into a sick weight that drops directly into his stomach and the Holder-turned-recordskeeper hesitates. He swallows hard, shuts his eyes - and opens them only when he grudgingly, oh-so-grudgingly, turns to face the source of that voice. "Do we." There is no question there, just a flattened utterance. His mouth twists a little to one side and his brow knits just a touch. Yet, all the same, his eyes remain on her face - and her eyes, if he can manage as much. "I'm sure it can wait until I'm done here, if it's just talk." "Yes," Lya's arms fold stubbornly across her chest and the look she levels on Weylaughn doesn't hold a shred of patience. She moves one hand so she can direct a shove at his shoulder. "No, now." Now. "You need to tell me what your intentions are with Farideh." Farideh had said she didn't need to be subtle. One eyebrow lifts - and then rises higher at the shove to his shoulder. Weylaughn takes the push and rolls with it; he doesn't lift a hand to stop it, nor does he retaliate in any way beyond folding his arms over his chest. "And who are you to her?" That's the more important question in his view. "Family by blood? Marriage?" Her question can hang there until his is answered, a trace of imperiousness still lingering in his tone and bearing. His posture stiffens a bit more, lending just that little bit of extra height - along with a subtle squaring of his shoulders. "Because all of that is personal business between her and myself. It is not a matter of public discussion." Lycinea snorts, "That you don't even know that only goes to show how shallow your intentions for her must be." She pairs the comment with a haughty look of Knowing Things. So there. At least she doesn't stick out her tongue, although the flicker of it across her lips might just be her catching herself in the moment before she does. "If you want to stand any chance of something real with her, you're going to tell me. Otherwise I'll tell her you're planning to put her in a rundown cothold and keep her pregnant and barefoot and making you sandwiches while you go out fucking other girls like her stupid brother-in-law, and she won't give you the time of day." That look? Still stubborn. She came ready to go head to head with Weylaughn if she has to (and apparently she sort of does). "That I don't know only means you didn't tell me and she didn't feel it was important enough to tell me. I'm terribly sorry if the interactions between herself and mine didn't include an agonizingly lengthy discussion of who she was related to." Weylaughn's tone is even - but the words are clipped and crisp, his accent more or less straightened out into something "proper". "And if that, to you, indicates my intentions are shallow, then I feel terrible pity for you. It must be dreadful living with a brain that dysfunctional." He slides over a step, then two, enough to gain some distance and retrieve the remaining armload of books that need to be dealt with. "Regardless. Our situation is personal. If you wish to lie to her, then that's the burden you can choose to bear to the crematory pyre." A sidelong look is angled to Lycinea, his expression set in something impassive and cold. "The fact that I have no cothold to return to and that I've chosen to live here will be more than enough to prove that you're a liar, if that's the route you choose." Lycinea could shrink away from this less than chivalrous judgment of herself and the situation, but then she wouldn't be Lya. Instead, she has to snort derisively again and roll her eyes. "Listen, Weylaughn of Seven Echoes Hold," she says with authority before reaching out to try to flick him in the arm, following, the distance he tries to put between them. "Are you actually stupid enough to think that I would be here if she didn't know? Like I would have any reason to-" stoop to- "-talk to you otherwise. As far as I'm concerned, we still want nothing to do with each other. You didn't even want to meet me." That one time. "To even ask my name. You already have black marks in my book, but if Farideh wants to go about going goo-goo eyed over idiot Holders without a shred of manner or common decency..." Well then she can. "If you had good intentions toward her, you shouldn't be so reticent to say so. We could've been done in all of eleven words between us." And then she parrots while counting on her fingers, "What are your intentions with Farideh?" and "My intentions are good, I swear." Okay. 12. But that's not the point. She's given up on the finger counting anyway since she needs to be turning to start making a dramatic exit. "And, yet, you failed to answer my question." Weylaughn cants a glance toward her, plainly uncaring at her efforts to flick him. Everything is sliding toward a state of cool collectedness in him - a state that's entirely too comfortable for the Holder. "If you were her father or her sister or even a third cousin five times removed, I would have answered. To anyone else in this Weyr - or anywhere - our situation is a personal one. Personal. It does not involve you. It does not involve anyone else - beyond her family and mine, as your beloved manners and decency dictate. That, truly, is the extent of it as far as you should be concerned. Until you tell me who you are to her - or until she chooses to, as she wishes - then I will tell you precisely as much as I would tell anyone else here - or elsewhere." Stiff-backed as ever, he doesn't back down; the distance gained is only as much as needed to keep his presence from being ominous and looming. "Or is that too difficult a concept for you? That, sometimes, people don't care to discuss the minutiae of their personal lives with veritable strangers who come, fists raised and ready to fight, about a matter that's none of their business? Try being cordial and decent next time - and I'll be more than happy to give you civility." "Oh!" is the outraged note that has Lycinea whirling around to come back at Weylaughn, intent on another (two-handed this time) shove. "Look around yourself, fancypants," the girl is risen to real anger now. "This isn't a Faranth forsaken hovel of stone and mortar where people too stupid and stuck in tradition and family and Blood spend their lives day after day wasted over stupid matters of succession and marriage." She half snarls her next, "If you knew anything about Farideh, you'd know she left her family behind, this isn't a place where the people you were born to have your back," they certainly never had Lya's. "This place is for the family you choose to keep and where someone will have your back whether you have any highfalutin fancypants Blood or not. I wouldn't bother with you if you were the last person on Pern save for her asking me to, so next time, don't write off the girl that smells like the kitchens as someone who couldn't possibly be important to the lofty Farideh." She's probably thinking about kicking his shin now, judging from the glance in that direction. The shove, fortunately, doesn't dislodge the burden of books in Weylaughn's grip. But, it does serve well to make his expression all the more severe. Of course he'll take that punishment - and even the kick to his shins, if it comes to that - but he'll take it without a wince or any effort at retaliating. Instead, his voice simply lowers, his tone cool and crisp and clipped. "Is this how Weyrfolk answer questions? With violence?" He steps closer, his efforts at minimizing the potential for his looming now being reversed. "I had one question for you. One. 'Who are you to Farideh?' and, here, you're shoving me and raising your voice at me, all without answering the question. You are the one assuming I don't think you're important to her. You are the one who is acting as if I'm the villain without actually listening to a word that's come out of my mouth. You are the one who assumes I, too, have not left the bulk of my family behind for the sake of being here. If you are important to Farideh as you so desperately claim - yet, cannot define - then I am horrified that you cannot even bother to feign respect or at least civility when talking to me." And as he speaks, his voice dips lower, still audible but with enough weight attached to each word to make it sink ever lower. "Answer my question and I will answer yours, but if you cannot be bothered to speak with me without striking me, then I will not care what your name is - because you will not exist to me." "You are a villain, Holdbred," Lya spits venomously at the taller man. "I don't do respect and I don't do civility for those who might as well be the tunnelsnakes we make sport--" And that's where she abruptly stops. For a second, her look is startled, and then it settles into a more violent glare. "I gave you my name once, dimglow. It was a mistake then," and she won't bother to renew it now. Now she does (not kick his shin but) stomp his foot hard (it's an orphan thing) before stalking off, knocking things off the shelves with one hand as she goes. "So be it, child." Weylaughn endures that foot-stomping with a hiss and gritting of teeth - but, as before, he minds his response. He's endured his share of it, no doubt - and not necessarily just at his mother's hand. Instead, he watches with indifference while she continues her hissy fit, right down to watching her effectively tear down the work he'd already done. He's also mindful not to correct her - of course he knows her name - he just doesn't care. "So be it," is for his ears alone the second time - and when he's done cleaning the mess up, he continues to finish up his work. Perhaps she might be expecting some letter or another to the head cook or Headwoman about her behavior; perhaps she might anticipate some sort of other activity in response - but there is nothing. Not one thing. |
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