[Maitrey] Dancing at the Fort Hold Gather.
RL Date: 9/20/09 - 9/24/09 --Started on-game on Sunday, played by email for a few days since.
IC Date: 10/6/20 --Backdate.
As the day wears on closer to evening, the tables set up near both the row of drink-sellers and the dancing square have begun to fill with revellers weary of whatever revelry they've been part of: people with bags and boxes of purchases; tables filled with empty glasses and still crowded with the latest round; exhausted-looking people drooping in chairs who were likely dancing until recently. Though space is at a premium, Amerie has a table to herself, that she's currently defending with general air of superiority and a glare or two. She's got the same method for anyone who's interested in the weaver herself, which keeps her fairly admirer-free. The fact that she's finally had the sense to wear her wrap might help a bit with that too. With an empty wineglass before her that she's spinning idly, she watches the crowd, elegantly bored.
Few things in life are quite so grand as being young, not-bad-looking, and suddenly finding a little money in one's pockets. Most of the afternoon, after losing T'rev and his baubles, has been spent in various pursuits: finding a few friends from the Hall and having the necessary drinks, catching up with Journeymen and Masters and offering to buy them the necessary drinks, very little shopping and that mostly just for supplies, and finally stalking. Now that the sun's going down, Maitrey's either got to find the woman or admit defeat, and high-spirits don't lend well to defeat. So, after a quick survey of the booths looking for anything in gold, he's made his way around the perimeter of the party and finally some place he actually wouldn't otherwise have thought to look: near the dancing. With a spreading grin, sliding on to the end of the bench on Amerie's side, he offers casually, "You see, I think this is some sort of subconscious betrayal of desire on your part," with his eyes pinned on the brightly-colored gaiety of spinning couples.
On the harper's approach, Amerie basically ignores him, her dark gaze fixed on those milling past the booths around the dancers rather than the dancers themselves; it's only when Maitrey sits down that she's about to turn and tell him off. But then, she recognizes the voice - and the grin evident in it - so she maintains her surveillance of the crowds. Slender fingers twirling the stem of the glass between them, she rests an elbow on the table, chin in hand. Not going anywhere anytime soon. "You would like it to be," she counters. "I hate to burst your bubble-" Lies. "But the Weyrleader picked the table - I just haven't seen reason to move as of yet."
No point denying it; "I would like it to be, yes." Maitrey dusts off the remnants of someone else's revelry before he puts his elbow onto the table, not so finely attired as some but not ready to go around with crud on his sleeve for the rest of the night, either. His chin goes onto his palm presently, leaves him comfortably settled to watch Amerie watching everything else. "I can think of a good reason for you to move," he begins predictably, his head leaning indicatively toward the dancing. "A couple of them, actually. Are you sure you still want to be here when the Weyrleader and his decorative arm-candy return?"
Amerie can quirk something of a smirk, playing around full lips. "And how will that look to all these people I've been glaring at or refusing the whole time? You sit down for two minutes and I go acquiescing, the next time I'm dragged out, glaring won't help." With a sidelong glance, she takes in Maitrey's similar pose - watching him watching her for a beat before, "Oh, she came along to find him already. And while I'm not sure they /will/ return, I'll have to get used to her anyway." After another moment, she turns to look over at him, adding, "Besides, I changed my mind - as I might have mentioned."
"Are you so worried about how it will look? You can tell them..." Maitrey trails off, his attention wandering briefly around the vultures circling the table of a pretty woman, finally returning to the weaver with a clever brightness. "You can tell them that you have a penchant for green-eyed harpers, and, unless they happen to be one, they'd best just move along." He scoots a little farther down the bench, not into personal space but not so much his-end/her-end just now. "You mentioned something to that effect," he answers like the words don't belong in this conversation. Really, "Dance with me, Amerie."
Smoothly, "I like to keep my life simple. Being unpleasant seems to be helpful in that regard." Except in a few cases, like the one presently next to her. Amerie straightens as Maitrey slides down the bench, and even though he's not in her personal space, she seems very aware of the boundary, anyone even close to it. Fine brow arching for the potential explanation, at least a little amused, "That works until another one comes along, doesn't it?" For the last, she turns her gaze away, down to the glass still in hand, giving it a last, slow spin before setting it down. Reluctant - of course - "All right."
Granted, "Green-eyed harpers aren't exactly needles in haystacks, but neither are we fish in barrels." There are a /lot/ of blue knots at a Fort Gather, certainly, but Maitrey's had a good day, and it's easy to find confidence in that kind of light. She finishes her drink, he studiously avoids looking expectant, which serves him well as it keeps him from looking self-satisfied at the acquiescence. Climbing away from the table, not near enough the end to accomplish it as gracefully as he might have a few seconds ago, he drops one hand behind his back and offers the other to help Amerie find her feet, more for ceremony than necessity. "In deference to your preferences, we'll wait for a /simple/ dance," he offers graciously.
"Perhaps I just need to come up with a narrower filter." If Amerie even bothers explaining herself to anyone, which is so unlikely to begin with, it's one of her worse excuses. Maitrey's expression is eyed momentarily, so it's just as well he's being subtle about being expectant or pleased with himself. Despite any reluctance, she's gracious as well, taking the offered hand, both dress and bench requiring she be careful - therefore a lot more graceful about it. As she stands, her hand still in his, she glances over to the crowded square doubtfully, noting, "That might be best for all involved."
A quiet assurance answers her doubtful words; "I've danced with a lot of people who don't know what they're doing. I promise you, I am good at this." Maitrey has to, twice, shift Amerie's hand from his left to his right and back again, sometimes stuck leading them single-file through the perimeter-crowd watching the quick-spinning reel in progress. Finally, making it to the front-lines where people are either just there to watch or, like them, waiting for something less fancy to join-- "The drummer there," in the small band leading the music, "only just walked the tables. He very nearly lost it, choked on his history exams." Simple, useless gossip.
Amerie doesn't necessarily love the implication that she doesn't know what she's doing - but she doesn't, so there's not really anything for her to get irritated about, even if she wants to. As they negotiate the crowd, the weaver manages that admirably, at least - though once they do reach the front, the combination of people and the speed of the dance in progress has her expression shading darker again. Maitrey's gossip is a smart move, distracting her from the idea of trying to going back on this agreement yet again. Dark gaze flickers the drummer's way, idly; "It happens often, I'd imagine."
Maitrey teeters one hand in the air, the other still holding Amerie's, and answers, "That likely depends on your definition of 'often.' I wouldn't sit my exams if I thought I wasn't going to pass them, personally. Fear of rejection or some such." Considering the present circumstances (pestering a woman /way/ out of his league into dancing with him), the twitchy smile probably doesn't need to be explained. "Approached yours with calm confidence, I imagine?" The teetering hand touches his forehead before it lowers behind his back again, a mild salute to a familiar face across the crowd, one that looks confusedly surprised by the company Maitrey's keeping.
Amerie doesn't ever seem entirely comfortable with being hand-in-hand with Maitrey - though given her general demeanor, it's difficult to imagine when she might be comfortable with such generally. For supposed fear of rejection, she has a purse of lips, an arched brow, and a tone rich with disbelief, "Really." The smile doesn't need to be explained, no. Wry, she adds, "That fear must be limited to your academic pursuits. And I was - fairly confident I'd do well. At the time, I did little but study." The mild salute has her glancing across the way to where he's likely looking, picking out the surprised fellow after a moment; she just shakes her head a little, both resigned and faintly amused.
That's okay. Maitrey doesn't seem /entirely/ comfortable being hand-in-hand with Amerie, but he does his best to keep that under wraps, probably only still holding on to her so she can't bolt (without making a scene). Her wry addition sparks a quick smile; "No, it's actually universal. Which would likely imply that I didn't think you were going to tell me no, wouldn't it?" The fact that he sounds entertained by that probably speaks to it as a falsehood, but he doesn't clarify further, instead starting to draw on her hand lightly while the last chords of the spinning song dissolve and the dancers revolve to a gradual, pink-cheeked halt in their places. "'At the time,' she says, which begs a question. What is it that you do these days, may I ask?"
If she's considering an escape, at least Amerie is a bit less obvious than she might have been in the past - no casing the exits, no subtle shifts away from the edge of the square. Of course, that might have something to do with the four-deep crowd all around; hard to sneak away, and equally difficult not to make a scene doing so - which is more or less like death first for someone so reserved. "Mm," she answers, non-committal, hardly buying it. "Implication is hardly fact. Unless you're that certain in your ability to annoy me into agreeing - you seem to have a talent." Dark eyes take in the dying moments of the dance, and she betrays a little trepidation as Maitrey draws on her hand with slightly reluctant steps. Dryly, "Now? I work."
"Thank you," Maitrey answers without missing a cheerful beat. "I actually have a fair few talents, but I won't complain if 'annoying Amerie into compliance' is listed among them." He draws a touch more firmly on her hand, after a brief squeeze of his fingers, to complete the luring out to the floor, finding a space for the two of them that is not elbow-to-elbow with the rest of the revelers. Now, she works; "I could feign surprise, but I'm not sure it would be even remotely believable. No hobbies? No secret pleasures?" Turning, facing her, he draws the clasped hand up and beckons with his empty fingers for her other hand, aiming to place it appropriately on his shoulder.
"Do you? If I ask after your talents, will you be as vague as you are about your shortcomings, whatever they may be?" It's a good thing he can maintain cheer in the face of Amerie's ever-shifting mood - not even she's able to, so it's likely a good sign for surviving the evening. Though she doesn't respond in kind to the momentary squeeze of her hand, the reticence is less obvious - and likely impossible for anyone but Maitrey to notice. To her credit, she does take the opportunity to show off the dress, loosening the wrap and ensuring she's neither slouching nor glowering. As his hand beckons, she gives him a look - please - and lifts slender hand to his shoulder, fingers light. "I have /seen/ this before. And my work was once my hobby. As for secret pleasures... they don't tend to last, so why bother?"
Speaking of vague; "I might. Do you think that's something you might ask about?" Maitrey watches the loosening of the wrap for a second, eyebrows climbing merrily upward as if specifically to ensure that Amerie notices that he noticed; smartly, he says nothing. As to her protestations, he remarks casually, "One can never be too sure. --If this turns out to be a toss dance, I'm going to feel awfully silly." That when his hand settles lightly across her hip, when he looks just beyond her shoulder to the band, readying the first bars of a light-tempoed dancing tune. Her latter comment sends his brows lifting without the amused overtones, with surprise, as a matter of fact. "Ignoring the fact that my own have kept me occupied for nearly half a decade... What makes you think that 'secret pleasures' implies permanence, Amerie?"
Amerie rolls her eyes, hardly as amused as Maitrey is by that particular bit of turnabout. But then, is that a surprise either? "I might," she echoes, in a tone that indicates she's at least sensing the irony of that particular question. Resigned, "What are your talents, then? Other than the ones already stated." Such as irritating her. As for the dress, the harper's not quite the desired audience - that would be all the women now peeking around their partners - so any appreciation there is more or less ignored. Darkly, quietly, "/You/ won't feel silly." But then, the music from the band is fairly sedate - another point where she might have bolted, past without incident. The surprise brings only her own bemusement; lips pursing, "I can hardly ignore that fact. And perhaps I should say..." She's clearly weighing her words before, "It seems like a lot of wasted time and effort to put into a secret in the first place, particularly if limited. You would know better than I would, apparently."
Looking straight at her, the amused gravity conveyed in the very direct, unbroken way he holds Amerie's eyes, Maitrey answers, "Guess, Amerie." Carefully, conscientiously, he plucks at that gold fabric until he can get it rubbed between his finger and his thumb, making a point of it to ask, "And then I'll try to guess your talents." Because, really, between two crafters as specialized as this pair? That's a funny question. As promised, he is a good dancer; specifically, he's good at leading people, keeping the steps simple and sedate, gracefully easy-- presumably easy for someone with the weaver's natural poise. She's not going to trample his feet, right? "There's nothing you enjoy fleetingly? Nothing you do every once in a while strictly for pleasure?" A carefully-guided, slow spin later, he adds, "I have a feeling you're going to tell me that you enjoy your work. So please don't?"
Equally steady in her gaze - though the fingering of that satin does cause a momentary twitch - Amerie just arches a brow, noting, "I did say beyond those stated. I rather assumed your talent as an artist, despite seeing very little of your finished work." Hers, she wears around pretty much constantly, so. And although she doesn't apparently dance, she is careful and graceful - which, along with Maitrey's lead, produces a fairly respectable turn around the square. No stepping on toes or treading on hems. The spin is unexpected, however slow, but that's only betrayed with a blink before wryly, "I won't." Which seems to be about it, though she seems thoughtful - and eventually; "Sometimes, I visit friends. Sometimes, I like to watch people or go for a drink. But -" Stop. Pause. "Why is it so awful when someone enjoys their work? Isn't that the point?"
Maitrey's behaving himself. Aside from that brush of fabric, his hands aren't going anywhere they shouldn't. Testament to the fearsomeness of Amerie? "It's not awful. It's a wonderful luxury. But." He does not lead directly into another of those sweeping turns, perceptive enough to pick up the blink, subtle as it might have been, but it's likely waiting in the wings for a repeat performance. "It shouldn't be a person's only enjoyment. I love to paint--" The brief pause acknowledges the whole 'except for the parts where he's up all night pulling out his hair and then knocking on weavers' doors at the crack of dawn.' "--but it's not the only thing I do with myself, with my time." Confessing, low; "It disappoints my romantic notions that a beautiful woman spends the majority of her time working." And he shrugs, which does lead into another slow twirl.
General impropriety seems to be less Amerie's issue than improper handling of the dress - that Maitrey's hands might go wandering (in front of a whole lot of people, no less) doesn't even seem to have crossed her mind. Either testament to her confidence in her ability to strike fear in the hearts of young men, or to her belief in his supposed utter harmlessness? Who knows. "/Shouldn't/ it? Are there rules?" She's entertained by the thought, apparently - and though she's never really at ease, she's seeming less concerned about the dancing aspect of things, so there's that. Arching a brow for 'love to paint', she asks, "What else do you do with yourself then, Maitrey? And romantic notions." There's a smirk for that - and when she comes back from that twirl, overly apologetic, "I'm sorry to disappoint them, but I am often ruthlessly pragmatic." And contrary. "How would you suggest a beautiful woman spend her time?"
There's no answer about the rules, the lack of them, except a slow-spreading smile that seems to speak to some arcane knowledge about such matters that Maitrey, in all his wisdome, possesses. To answer both, to account equally for what he does with his time and what he suggests beautiful women do with theirs, he settles into steps that involve no spins or twirls or anything but easily looking back at Amerie, close to eye-level, his twinkling with a difficult blend of merriment and straightforwardness. "I could make many, many, many suggestions about the ways in which beautiful women should spend their time. /Many./" Seriousness loses to a grin and a low-voiced, "I could show you pictures." Sort of like a pornographic primer! "In lieu of that. It simply seems a shame, Amerie, that something lovely is closeted away, made purposefully untouchable, conscientiously avoiding life's little thrills because they might bring with them pain or discomfort or embarrassment. It's not so bad, this..." He draws in a breath, uses the moment to look at the situation anew: he is dancing with a woman utterly out of his league, and all he had to do was be persistently annoying. "...business of taking risks."
For all Amerie's not in the least impressed by that slow smile, nor Maitrey's supposed wisdom, she /had/ to know what sort of answer there was to her question - though the only thing that betrays her amusement is a glimmer in dark eyes. Dryly, "Many suggestions that all come down to one thing, in the end." And while she might not be surprised by his answer, it's the candor that has her glancing away briefly, perhaps flushing beneath dusky skin. "Should, again - as if there's a moral obligation. Sorry, pictures?" Bemused - the pieces will likely fall into place eventually - she's quickly distracted by the philosophizing on her state of being. The very soul of derision, "Well, Maitrey - congratulations. After a handful of conversations, you've clearly got me figured out. Now that you've put it /that/ way..." She gives him a look - as if. "What makes it such a shame? I don't exist to be looked at; certainly not to be-- accessible." Despite the current situation - though if what she says can be believed, she's pretty much out of anyone's league. "It's not risk I'm adverse to. It's people. I don't like entanglements." She likes simple, remember? That's all.
With false defensiveness, Maitrey answers promptly, "It's not /one/ thing, Amerie. There are at least--" Fingers tap along her side, counting. "--six relatively unique things. ...Seven." The addition comes after a brief, thoughtful glazing of upturned eyes. "Do you really think that I think that I've got you figured out? I admit, it's purely speculative. You're withdrawn, but you're obviously not incapable of being social. In fact, you can be lured into being almost friendly." He's done it twice now! "We're not all so terrible, us people," he posits with a small laugh, shaking his head, glancing at the swirling press around them. A press that's starting to dissolve as the music seems to be reaching its end, a song familiar enough to most people that their steps are drifting to a slow-turning stop, that their hands drop from their partners in preparation for the applause to follow.
"Seven," Amerie echoes, allowing a momentary curve of full lips for Maitrey's finger-counting, the thoughtfulness. "This is what you spend your time figuring out." It's clear she thinks it's something of a waste. "No, I don't think you actually do, but it seemed that you thought you might have. And no, I'm not incapable." There's that long pause to weigh words again, before she continues, "I would prefer to choose who I'd like to be almost friendly with - my lack of general sociability makes that an easier thing, as most people will simply avoid me." And that's good with her. For people, as the pairs begin to slow and the song reaches it's last notes, she can allow, "Perhaps, not all. Not individually. As a group?" There's a girlish wrinkle of her nose. "If I were you, I would simply accept whatever tolerance I afford to you specifically, rather than try to convince me of the general worth of 'people'."
Maitrey looks down, away, finally an innocent upward tilt of green eyes that insist on betraying merriment at every available opportunity; "It's not the only thing I spend my time doing, but, as we were saying, everyone needs some sort of hobby. There are certainly worse ones to have." After a quick, calm press of his fingers, he releases Amerie's hand, draws his other one away from her waist, and turns toward the band to add his applause to that being raised by those gathered in and around the square. Audible despite that, despite the errant shuffling and strumming of musicians briefly discussing what they ought to play next, he adds to her comment about acceptance, "I will take whatever I can get, Amerie, and consider myself lucky. For example, can I usher you safely out of the crowd and deliver you someplace that you can get swarmed by women who absolutely /must/ have a dress like that." He really shouldn't be so good at mimicry of feminine gushing, it's not at all butch, but he goes all the way with the envious eye-rolling and fluttering of his fingers at his face.
Innocence is a little hard to buy after the discussion they've been having, but Amerie has to concede, "I suppose there are worse ones to have. More self-destructive, certainly, though I might argue /needing/ to have a hobby. I've managed decently otherwise - unless you consider just general maintenance of all of this -" A gesture; the hair, the face, the clothes. "A hobby." And then, she's released, the dance is over, no one's dead and everyone's feet are still intact. Adding her own polite clapping to the general applause, she also manages to remember her manners with Maitrey as well; under the buzz of the crowd, "Thank you. It wasn't /awful/, so I suppose you're safe from recrimination." As she glances over at him to catch the fawning impression, she can't help but actually laugh - short, quiet, but entertained nonetheless. "Honestly, I am sorely tempted to just go home and have them find me tomorrow - but I suppose that's not good buisness."
Innocence is a little hard to sell, so it's not as if Maitrey will take offense if she can see through his ruse. "The question is really, do you consider it a hobby? I--" A gesture in return, his own hair, face, clothes. "--obviously don't." He's clean and shaved and his clothes are decent enough for party-going, and that's about as good as it gets for l'artiste. "You're welcome," he adds with gracious decorum, even dips his head in a half-bow before he offers a leading hand to get her safely to the edge of the square. As if Amerie is somehow less likely to get trampled alongside an unimpressive harper. A low aside; "Commerce will not thank you to run and hide, Amerie. You look pretty, and people have noticed it, why not find a little work to while away a long winter? If my work sold itself so well..." The look he gives her dress is /appreciative/, thank you, rather than lascivious.
After a moment's consideration, "I don't really think it is, but perhaps it takes the time a hobby would. As much as I would like to pretend I wake up like this way, unfortunately I haven't worked out how to manage that." Yet. "And obviously." Amerie has a smirk for Maitrey's own encompassing gesture - she likely figured that bit out on her own. There's the barest hesitation before taking the offered hand; she can't clear a path by her very presence here, and lingering might lead to more dancing - the horror. As they move out of the square, she just has to point out, "'Pretty' is for flowers, small children. I'm well past pretty. But thank you." That gratitude is not for the look, however he'd like it to be interpreted; she's not likely to figure it's for the dress itself. Picking up on that last, unfinished thought, "Does it not? Unless you were just making excuses earlier, apparently /something/ did."
To her first; "I would have believed you if you said you rolled out of bed looking impeccable, for future reference." Maitrey only folds the reclaimed hand in between his, both of them tucked into the small of his back to make for a short train of himself and Amerie, easier to weave through people already taking places for the next number. Despite his praise for commerce, he ducks rather than approaches a portly woman all dressed in silks who has her mouth open to speak as they approach, diverting between a few broad-shouldered fellows who make a narrow passage that dumps out into the rim of people lining the square. It's during all this carefully fancy bobbing-and-weaving that he comments over his shoulder, "I try to keep it to two syllables every now and then," pretty, "or people think I'm being pretentious. And, given the company earlier, would it come as such a surprise if I was only making excuses? The daughter of Fort Seahold may be easy on the eyes, but she's hell on the nerves."
Faintly regretful, "No, I don't think you would have, but that's lovely of you to say, at least." If only Amerie could wake up perfect. Maybe she'd be in a better mood generally? Though she is amused by the first, both her hand folded between Maitrey's and his careful negotiation of the crowd - past a woman that might keep a few weavers in shoes with the cost of fabric alone - is a little less entertaining. She's distracted for a beat, glancing back behind her at the square through the aforementioned narrow passage - but still follows along. It's not as if she'd usually go out of her way to stick around and chat anyway. Eventually, "For your future reference, I have very little call to be calling anyone else pretentious, particularly while complimenting me. And no, making excuses would not surprise me in the least, but were you or weren't you?" Since direct questioning appears to be the only way to get an answer. Flatly, "Yes, well. Something my nerves will likely have to become accustomed to. I suppose I can just talk about clothes. That's currently the plan."
"No," Maitrey answers to that last question. "I wasn't only making excuses." Through the last rim of people, out into the open air at the edge of the square in between dancing and booths, the darkness a little more notable for having spent a fair amount of time beneath the bright lights, he swings the laced hands to his side instead of the small of his back and turns to look generically toward the next stream of illumiation: tents, booths, commerce in action. "But it was a convenient excuse, if also true. I don't envy you, Amerie, for having to tolerate the woman. For all the Weyr may have reason to be grateful for your work helping pave a friendship between itself and the Seahold, I'm happy to duck the responsibility, personally." To account for the peering toward the brightness, for still having her hand, he adds, "Do you need a drink, or should I let you go back and see if you can find the woman in enough silk to sail a ship? Make some money?"
"You've had a fairly good day, then - ducking out of irritating company, making money, pestering weavers..." Out of the press of the square, Amerie takes a deep breath of cool air, letting it out in a sigh - and immediately has to throw the wrap about herself a little more fully. Though less of an advertisement, it's warmer, especially out of the crowds and the lights. Letting her gaze drift up to the night sky, "I might have liked an excuse. I try not to work with people I can't stand, but it's rather like dominoes in this case - flick one over and the rest fall. As for paving friendships... I think that there might have been better people chosen for that mission." Some achieve diplomacy, some have it thrust upon them. Past the point of being too bothered with Maitrey keeping hold of her hand - maybe partially due to the chill - she glances towards the booths as well. Amused, "Are you offering to buy me a drink? I don't know if I should accept - as I recall, apprentices are not exactly awash in funds." For the ship of a woman, she looks back to the crowd with distaste, and no one in silks magically appears. "I don't know that I want to - go back into that. Though I likely should."
Bolstered, unrepentant, Maitrey agrees promptly, "I have, actually," had a good day. "Though, when I recount the day for myself, it will be 'dancing with a beautiful woman' instead of your 'pestering weavers' version." Away from the chill, toward the warm press of people, he draws on Amerie's hand once more. "If you're saying yes to that drink, then I'm offering, certainly. If only to keep you from having to 'go back into that,'" with a decent repetition of her tone if not really an echo of her voice specifically, "right away. A drink might be bolstering?" A glance goes to the wrap, some small disappointment conveyed in the look he issues to Amerie immediately after-- must she?-- and he adds, "It's also likely to be warmer over there, and I would feel awfully bad if I left you here shivering."
Though she's been quite open about her irritation, Amerie does feel the need to amend, "To be fair, you pestered me more beforehand than today - so I suppose your version could stand." Both the promise of warmth and Maitrey's pull on her hand have her showing less reluctance than she'd had for dancing; as they move back towards people and light, "As I said, I am unsure if I should accept. But if you insist..." After all, it's not her job to be concerned with the state of the harper's finances. For the mimicry of her tone, she wrinkles her nose again. Not /entirely/ defensive, "Well, it can be rather exhausting, maintaining even bare manners for everyone who wants to ask the same questions over and over." Even his small disappointment has her curving a slight smirk; wryly, "It's not /that/ warm. And I shouldn't have worn this, honestly. I knew it would be miserable, but I--" A pause. "I couldn't just leave it languishing till the spring."
"You call it pestering. I call it convincing." His smile acknowledges the semantics of it, not pressing the issue but completely comfortable with his own interpretation of events. Artistic license. Maitrey laughs briefly, brightly at the if-you-insist, shaking his head in a bit of lingering amusement about which he does not clarify while he leads through the open patch between dancers and drinkers, fast approaching a whole new crowd, this one smelling a whole lot more like beer and less like sweat. "It's debatable which aroma was preferable, isn't it," he muses with a light upturn of to the corner of his nose, sniffing a little yuckily. Her remark about her attire has him looking over quickly, brows furrowed. "What would you have worn otherwise?" As if he can fathom no alternative to this particular dress, all his imagination spent to come up with anything but /gold/. "Truly, not just as the little pervert I try to keep from peeking his opinions out now and then, you look /lovely/."
With an easy gesture of her free hand, "Whatever you want to call it." Amerie is fairly content with her own way of putting things, Maitrey's artistic license notwithstanding. The laughter is noted with a glance and a fine brow arched, but she doesn't ask - and though she wasn't quite at the shivering point, the windbreak and warmth of other bodies seems to be appreciated, even if spilled beer is less so. Attention now on anyone close enough to ruin her precious satin - paranoid! - she murmurs, "And you tell me people aren't so bad..." Dark eyes shift from the crowd at his question, clearly amused. "Maitrey, I have four proper gowns, and at least three outfits that I would consider passable for a semi-formal occasion. I have some choice." A meaningful look for the harper's own outfit; choice? Maybe a good thing. "The blue velvet, likely. Long sleeves, thicker - even if the neckline can be a bit much." Somehow, she manages /not/ to say anything or look snarky at 'little pervert' but, all too pleased with herself, "I know. Thank you, though."
To her mutter, Maitrey remarks, "I did say that we're not /all/ so terrible, not that all of us are not terrible." This while his elbow gets a little bump, sends a slosh of beer toward the ground which he side-steps-- without risking ruin to Amerie's gown. If all goes well, there will be drinks, he tends toward the good-old-fashioned beers and ales, personally, and he will eventually relinquish her company with a courteous hope that she enjoys the rest of the party, and a mutter about "the woman in the silks has been haunting your steps, by the way" before he takes his leave to be a good little harper and pay his respects.
"Mm." It's a non-answer, at best. Amerie fairly glares at the hapless passer-by who sends any liquid even near her dress. /That/ might make her mood a bit darker, but at least she's not pissed at Maitrey. And there are drinks, though she can't in good concience let him pay all that much for them; she sticks to white wine and not much of it - like she always says, she's not much fun. When they do part ways, she has her manners about herself enough to thank him again, and amazingly enough, she does not look like she had a completely horrific time. As for the woman in silks, the weaver can't avoid business forever, and drifts off the talk dresses before she gets too cold to bother.
IC Date: 10/6/20 --Backdate.
As the day wears on closer to evening, the tables set up near both the row of drink-sellers and the dancing square have begun to fill with revellers weary of whatever revelry they've been part of: people with bags and boxes of purchases; tables filled with empty glasses and still crowded with the latest round; exhausted-looking people drooping in chairs who were likely dancing until recently. Though space is at a premium, Amerie has a table to herself, that she's currently defending with general air of superiority and a glare or two. She's got the same method for anyone who's interested in the weaver herself, which keeps her fairly admirer-free. The fact that she's finally had the sense to wear her wrap might help a bit with that too. With an empty wineglass before her that she's spinning idly, she watches the crowd, elegantly bored.
Few things in life are quite so grand as being young, not-bad-looking, and suddenly finding a little money in one's pockets. Most of the afternoon, after losing T'rev and his baubles, has been spent in various pursuits: finding a few friends from the Hall and having the necessary drinks, catching up with Journeymen and Masters and offering to buy them the necessary drinks, very little shopping and that mostly just for supplies, and finally stalking. Now that the sun's going down, Maitrey's either got to find the woman or admit defeat, and high-spirits don't lend well to defeat. So, after a quick survey of the booths looking for anything in gold, he's made his way around the perimeter of the party and finally some place he actually wouldn't otherwise have thought to look: near the dancing. With a spreading grin, sliding on to the end of the bench on Amerie's side, he offers casually, "You see, I think this is some sort of subconscious betrayal of desire on your part," with his eyes pinned on the brightly-colored gaiety of spinning couples.
On the harper's approach, Amerie basically ignores him, her dark gaze fixed on those milling past the booths around the dancers rather than the dancers themselves; it's only when Maitrey sits down that she's about to turn and tell him off. But then, she recognizes the voice - and the grin evident in it - so she maintains her surveillance of the crowds. Slender fingers twirling the stem of the glass between them, she rests an elbow on the table, chin in hand. Not going anywhere anytime soon. "You would like it to be," she counters. "I hate to burst your bubble-" Lies. "But the Weyrleader picked the table - I just haven't seen reason to move as of yet."
No point denying it; "I would like it to be, yes." Maitrey dusts off the remnants of someone else's revelry before he puts his elbow onto the table, not so finely attired as some but not ready to go around with crud on his sleeve for the rest of the night, either. His chin goes onto his palm presently, leaves him comfortably settled to watch Amerie watching everything else. "I can think of a good reason for you to move," he begins predictably, his head leaning indicatively toward the dancing. "A couple of them, actually. Are you sure you still want to be here when the Weyrleader and his decorative arm-candy return?"
Amerie can quirk something of a smirk, playing around full lips. "And how will that look to all these people I've been glaring at or refusing the whole time? You sit down for two minutes and I go acquiescing, the next time I'm dragged out, glaring won't help." With a sidelong glance, she takes in Maitrey's similar pose - watching him watching her for a beat before, "Oh, she came along to find him already. And while I'm not sure they /will/ return, I'll have to get used to her anyway." After another moment, she turns to look over at him, adding, "Besides, I changed my mind - as I might have mentioned."
"Are you so worried about how it will look? You can tell them..." Maitrey trails off, his attention wandering briefly around the vultures circling the table of a pretty woman, finally returning to the weaver with a clever brightness. "You can tell them that you have a penchant for green-eyed harpers, and, unless they happen to be one, they'd best just move along." He scoots a little farther down the bench, not into personal space but not so much his-end/her-end just now. "You mentioned something to that effect," he answers like the words don't belong in this conversation. Really, "Dance with me, Amerie."
Smoothly, "I like to keep my life simple. Being unpleasant seems to be helpful in that regard." Except in a few cases, like the one presently next to her. Amerie straightens as Maitrey slides down the bench, and even though he's not in her personal space, she seems very aware of the boundary, anyone even close to it. Fine brow arching for the potential explanation, at least a little amused, "That works until another one comes along, doesn't it?" For the last, she turns her gaze away, down to the glass still in hand, giving it a last, slow spin before setting it down. Reluctant - of course - "All right."
Granted, "Green-eyed harpers aren't exactly needles in haystacks, but neither are we fish in barrels." There are a /lot/ of blue knots at a Fort Gather, certainly, but Maitrey's had a good day, and it's easy to find confidence in that kind of light. She finishes her drink, he studiously avoids looking expectant, which serves him well as it keeps him from looking self-satisfied at the acquiescence. Climbing away from the table, not near enough the end to accomplish it as gracefully as he might have a few seconds ago, he drops one hand behind his back and offers the other to help Amerie find her feet, more for ceremony than necessity. "In deference to your preferences, we'll wait for a /simple/ dance," he offers graciously.
"Perhaps I just need to come up with a narrower filter." If Amerie even bothers explaining herself to anyone, which is so unlikely to begin with, it's one of her worse excuses. Maitrey's expression is eyed momentarily, so it's just as well he's being subtle about being expectant or pleased with himself. Despite any reluctance, she's gracious as well, taking the offered hand, both dress and bench requiring she be careful - therefore a lot more graceful about it. As she stands, her hand still in his, she glances over to the crowded square doubtfully, noting, "That might be best for all involved."
A quiet assurance answers her doubtful words; "I've danced with a lot of people who don't know what they're doing. I promise you, I am good at this." Maitrey has to, twice, shift Amerie's hand from his left to his right and back again, sometimes stuck leading them single-file through the perimeter-crowd watching the quick-spinning reel in progress. Finally, making it to the front-lines where people are either just there to watch or, like them, waiting for something less fancy to join-- "The drummer there," in the small band leading the music, "only just walked the tables. He very nearly lost it, choked on his history exams." Simple, useless gossip.
Amerie doesn't necessarily love the implication that she doesn't know what she's doing - but she doesn't, so there's not really anything for her to get irritated about, even if she wants to. As they negotiate the crowd, the weaver manages that admirably, at least - though once they do reach the front, the combination of people and the speed of the dance in progress has her expression shading darker again. Maitrey's gossip is a smart move, distracting her from the idea of trying to going back on this agreement yet again. Dark gaze flickers the drummer's way, idly; "It happens often, I'd imagine."
Maitrey teeters one hand in the air, the other still holding Amerie's, and answers, "That likely depends on your definition of 'often.' I wouldn't sit my exams if I thought I wasn't going to pass them, personally. Fear of rejection or some such." Considering the present circumstances (pestering a woman /way/ out of his league into dancing with him), the twitchy smile probably doesn't need to be explained. "Approached yours with calm confidence, I imagine?" The teetering hand touches his forehead before it lowers behind his back again, a mild salute to a familiar face across the crowd, one that looks confusedly surprised by the company Maitrey's keeping.
Amerie doesn't ever seem entirely comfortable with being hand-in-hand with Maitrey - though given her general demeanor, it's difficult to imagine when she might be comfortable with such generally. For supposed fear of rejection, she has a purse of lips, an arched brow, and a tone rich with disbelief, "Really." The smile doesn't need to be explained, no. Wry, she adds, "That fear must be limited to your academic pursuits. And I was - fairly confident I'd do well. At the time, I did little but study." The mild salute has her glancing across the way to where he's likely looking, picking out the surprised fellow after a moment; she just shakes her head a little, both resigned and faintly amused.
That's okay. Maitrey doesn't seem /entirely/ comfortable being hand-in-hand with Amerie, but he does his best to keep that under wraps, probably only still holding on to her so she can't bolt (without making a scene). Her wry addition sparks a quick smile; "No, it's actually universal. Which would likely imply that I didn't think you were going to tell me no, wouldn't it?" The fact that he sounds entertained by that probably speaks to it as a falsehood, but he doesn't clarify further, instead starting to draw on her hand lightly while the last chords of the spinning song dissolve and the dancers revolve to a gradual, pink-cheeked halt in their places. "'At the time,' she says, which begs a question. What is it that you do these days, may I ask?"
If she's considering an escape, at least Amerie is a bit less obvious than she might have been in the past - no casing the exits, no subtle shifts away from the edge of the square. Of course, that might have something to do with the four-deep crowd all around; hard to sneak away, and equally difficult not to make a scene doing so - which is more or less like death first for someone so reserved. "Mm," she answers, non-committal, hardly buying it. "Implication is hardly fact. Unless you're that certain in your ability to annoy me into agreeing - you seem to have a talent." Dark eyes take in the dying moments of the dance, and she betrays a little trepidation as Maitrey draws on her hand with slightly reluctant steps. Dryly, "Now? I work."
"Thank you," Maitrey answers without missing a cheerful beat. "I actually have a fair few talents, but I won't complain if 'annoying Amerie into compliance' is listed among them." He draws a touch more firmly on her hand, after a brief squeeze of his fingers, to complete the luring out to the floor, finding a space for the two of them that is not elbow-to-elbow with the rest of the revelers. Now, she works; "I could feign surprise, but I'm not sure it would be even remotely believable. No hobbies? No secret pleasures?" Turning, facing her, he draws the clasped hand up and beckons with his empty fingers for her other hand, aiming to place it appropriately on his shoulder.
"Do you? If I ask after your talents, will you be as vague as you are about your shortcomings, whatever they may be?" It's a good thing he can maintain cheer in the face of Amerie's ever-shifting mood - not even she's able to, so it's likely a good sign for surviving the evening. Though she doesn't respond in kind to the momentary squeeze of her hand, the reticence is less obvious - and likely impossible for anyone but Maitrey to notice. To her credit, she does take the opportunity to show off the dress, loosening the wrap and ensuring she's neither slouching nor glowering. As his hand beckons, she gives him a look - please - and lifts slender hand to his shoulder, fingers light. "I have /seen/ this before. And my work was once my hobby. As for secret pleasures... they don't tend to last, so why bother?"
Speaking of vague; "I might. Do you think that's something you might ask about?" Maitrey watches the loosening of the wrap for a second, eyebrows climbing merrily upward as if specifically to ensure that Amerie notices that he noticed; smartly, he says nothing. As to her protestations, he remarks casually, "One can never be too sure. --If this turns out to be a toss dance, I'm going to feel awfully silly." That when his hand settles lightly across her hip, when he looks just beyond her shoulder to the band, readying the first bars of a light-tempoed dancing tune. Her latter comment sends his brows lifting without the amused overtones, with surprise, as a matter of fact. "Ignoring the fact that my own have kept me occupied for nearly half a decade... What makes you think that 'secret pleasures' implies permanence, Amerie?"
Amerie rolls her eyes, hardly as amused as Maitrey is by that particular bit of turnabout. But then, is that a surprise either? "I might," she echoes, in a tone that indicates she's at least sensing the irony of that particular question. Resigned, "What are your talents, then? Other than the ones already stated." Such as irritating her. As for the dress, the harper's not quite the desired audience - that would be all the women now peeking around their partners - so any appreciation there is more or less ignored. Darkly, quietly, "/You/ won't feel silly." But then, the music from the band is fairly sedate - another point where she might have bolted, past without incident. The surprise brings only her own bemusement; lips pursing, "I can hardly ignore that fact. And perhaps I should say..." She's clearly weighing her words before, "It seems like a lot of wasted time and effort to put into a secret in the first place, particularly if limited. You would know better than I would, apparently."
Looking straight at her, the amused gravity conveyed in the very direct, unbroken way he holds Amerie's eyes, Maitrey answers, "Guess, Amerie." Carefully, conscientiously, he plucks at that gold fabric until he can get it rubbed between his finger and his thumb, making a point of it to ask, "And then I'll try to guess your talents." Because, really, between two crafters as specialized as this pair? That's a funny question. As promised, he is a good dancer; specifically, he's good at leading people, keeping the steps simple and sedate, gracefully easy-- presumably easy for someone with the weaver's natural poise. She's not going to trample his feet, right? "There's nothing you enjoy fleetingly? Nothing you do every once in a while strictly for pleasure?" A carefully-guided, slow spin later, he adds, "I have a feeling you're going to tell me that you enjoy your work. So please don't?"
Equally steady in her gaze - though the fingering of that satin does cause a momentary twitch - Amerie just arches a brow, noting, "I did say beyond those stated. I rather assumed your talent as an artist, despite seeing very little of your finished work." Hers, she wears around pretty much constantly, so. And although she doesn't apparently dance, she is careful and graceful - which, along with Maitrey's lead, produces a fairly respectable turn around the square. No stepping on toes or treading on hems. The spin is unexpected, however slow, but that's only betrayed with a blink before wryly, "I won't." Which seems to be about it, though she seems thoughtful - and eventually; "Sometimes, I visit friends. Sometimes, I like to watch people or go for a drink. But -" Stop. Pause. "Why is it so awful when someone enjoys their work? Isn't that the point?"
Maitrey's behaving himself. Aside from that brush of fabric, his hands aren't going anywhere they shouldn't. Testament to the fearsomeness of Amerie? "It's not awful. It's a wonderful luxury. But." He does not lead directly into another of those sweeping turns, perceptive enough to pick up the blink, subtle as it might have been, but it's likely waiting in the wings for a repeat performance. "It shouldn't be a person's only enjoyment. I love to paint--" The brief pause acknowledges the whole 'except for the parts where he's up all night pulling out his hair and then knocking on weavers' doors at the crack of dawn.' "--but it's not the only thing I do with myself, with my time." Confessing, low; "It disappoints my romantic notions that a beautiful woman spends the majority of her time working." And he shrugs, which does lead into another slow twirl.
General impropriety seems to be less Amerie's issue than improper handling of the dress - that Maitrey's hands might go wandering (in front of a whole lot of people, no less) doesn't even seem to have crossed her mind. Either testament to her confidence in her ability to strike fear in the hearts of young men, or to her belief in his supposed utter harmlessness? Who knows. "/Shouldn't/ it? Are there rules?" She's entertained by the thought, apparently - and though she's never really at ease, she's seeming less concerned about the dancing aspect of things, so there's that. Arching a brow for 'love to paint', she asks, "What else do you do with yourself then, Maitrey? And romantic notions." There's a smirk for that - and when she comes back from that twirl, overly apologetic, "I'm sorry to disappoint them, but I am often ruthlessly pragmatic." And contrary. "How would you suggest a beautiful woman spend her time?"
There's no answer about the rules, the lack of them, except a slow-spreading smile that seems to speak to some arcane knowledge about such matters that Maitrey, in all his wisdome, possesses. To answer both, to account equally for what he does with his time and what he suggests beautiful women do with theirs, he settles into steps that involve no spins or twirls or anything but easily looking back at Amerie, close to eye-level, his twinkling with a difficult blend of merriment and straightforwardness. "I could make many, many, many suggestions about the ways in which beautiful women should spend their time. /Many./" Seriousness loses to a grin and a low-voiced, "I could show you pictures." Sort of like a pornographic primer! "In lieu of that. It simply seems a shame, Amerie, that something lovely is closeted away, made purposefully untouchable, conscientiously avoiding life's little thrills because they might bring with them pain or discomfort or embarrassment. It's not so bad, this..." He draws in a breath, uses the moment to look at the situation anew: he is dancing with a woman utterly out of his league, and all he had to do was be persistently annoying. "...business of taking risks."
For all Amerie's not in the least impressed by that slow smile, nor Maitrey's supposed wisdom, she /had/ to know what sort of answer there was to her question - though the only thing that betrays her amusement is a glimmer in dark eyes. Dryly, "Many suggestions that all come down to one thing, in the end." And while she might not be surprised by his answer, it's the candor that has her glancing away briefly, perhaps flushing beneath dusky skin. "Should, again - as if there's a moral obligation. Sorry, pictures?" Bemused - the pieces will likely fall into place eventually - she's quickly distracted by the philosophizing on her state of being. The very soul of derision, "Well, Maitrey - congratulations. After a handful of conversations, you've clearly got me figured out. Now that you've put it /that/ way..." She gives him a look - as if. "What makes it such a shame? I don't exist to be looked at; certainly not to be-- accessible." Despite the current situation - though if what she says can be believed, she's pretty much out of anyone's league. "It's not risk I'm adverse to. It's people. I don't like entanglements." She likes simple, remember? That's all.
With false defensiveness, Maitrey answers promptly, "It's not /one/ thing, Amerie. There are at least--" Fingers tap along her side, counting. "--six relatively unique things. ...Seven." The addition comes after a brief, thoughtful glazing of upturned eyes. "Do you really think that I think that I've got you figured out? I admit, it's purely speculative. You're withdrawn, but you're obviously not incapable of being social. In fact, you can be lured into being almost friendly." He's done it twice now! "We're not all so terrible, us people," he posits with a small laugh, shaking his head, glancing at the swirling press around them. A press that's starting to dissolve as the music seems to be reaching its end, a song familiar enough to most people that their steps are drifting to a slow-turning stop, that their hands drop from their partners in preparation for the applause to follow.
"Seven," Amerie echoes, allowing a momentary curve of full lips for Maitrey's finger-counting, the thoughtfulness. "This is what you spend your time figuring out." It's clear she thinks it's something of a waste. "No, I don't think you actually do, but it seemed that you thought you might have. And no, I'm not incapable." There's that long pause to weigh words again, before she continues, "I would prefer to choose who I'd like to be almost friendly with - my lack of general sociability makes that an easier thing, as most people will simply avoid me." And that's good with her. For people, as the pairs begin to slow and the song reaches it's last notes, she can allow, "Perhaps, not all. Not individually. As a group?" There's a girlish wrinkle of her nose. "If I were you, I would simply accept whatever tolerance I afford to you specifically, rather than try to convince me of the general worth of 'people'."
Maitrey looks down, away, finally an innocent upward tilt of green eyes that insist on betraying merriment at every available opportunity; "It's not the only thing I spend my time doing, but, as we were saying, everyone needs some sort of hobby. There are certainly worse ones to have." After a quick, calm press of his fingers, he releases Amerie's hand, draws his other one away from her waist, and turns toward the band to add his applause to that being raised by those gathered in and around the square. Audible despite that, despite the errant shuffling and strumming of musicians briefly discussing what they ought to play next, he adds to her comment about acceptance, "I will take whatever I can get, Amerie, and consider myself lucky. For example, can I usher you safely out of the crowd and deliver you someplace that you can get swarmed by women who absolutely /must/ have a dress like that." He really shouldn't be so good at mimicry of feminine gushing, it's not at all butch, but he goes all the way with the envious eye-rolling and fluttering of his fingers at his face.
Innocence is a little hard to buy after the discussion they've been having, but Amerie has to concede, "I suppose there are worse ones to have. More self-destructive, certainly, though I might argue /needing/ to have a hobby. I've managed decently otherwise - unless you consider just general maintenance of all of this -" A gesture; the hair, the face, the clothes. "A hobby." And then, she's released, the dance is over, no one's dead and everyone's feet are still intact. Adding her own polite clapping to the general applause, she also manages to remember her manners with Maitrey as well; under the buzz of the crowd, "Thank you. It wasn't /awful/, so I suppose you're safe from recrimination." As she glances over at him to catch the fawning impression, she can't help but actually laugh - short, quiet, but entertained nonetheless. "Honestly, I am sorely tempted to just go home and have them find me tomorrow - but I suppose that's not good buisness."
Innocence is a little hard to sell, so it's not as if Maitrey will take offense if she can see through his ruse. "The question is really, do you consider it a hobby? I--" A gesture in return, his own hair, face, clothes. "--obviously don't." He's clean and shaved and his clothes are decent enough for party-going, and that's about as good as it gets for l'artiste. "You're welcome," he adds with gracious decorum, even dips his head in a half-bow before he offers a leading hand to get her safely to the edge of the square. As if Amerie is somehow less likely to get trampled alongside an unimpressive harper. A low aside; "Commerce will not thank you to run and hide, Amerie. You look pretty, and people have noticed it, why not find a little work to while away a long winter? If my work sold itself so well..." The look he gives her dress is /appreciative/, thank you, rather than lascivious.
After a moment's consideration, "I don't really think it is, but perhaps it takes the time a hobby would. As much as I would like to pretend I wake up like this way, unfortunately I haven't worked out how to manage that." Yet. "And obviously." Amerie has a smirk for Maitrey's own encompassing gesture - she likely figured that bit out on her own. There's the barest hesitation before taking the offered hand; she can't clear a path by her very presence here, and lingering might lead to more dancing - the horror. As they move out of the square, she just has to point out, "'Pretty' is for flowers, small children. I'm well past pretty. But thank you." That gratitude is not for the look, however he'd like it to be interpreted; she's not likely to figure it's for the dress itself. Picking up on that last, unfinished thought, "Does it not? Unless you were just making excuses earlier, apparently /something/ did."
To her first; "I would have believed you if you said you rolled out of bed looking impeccable, for future reference." Maitrey only folds the reclaimed hand in between his, both of them tucked into the small of his back to make for a short train of himself and Amerie, easier to weave through people already taking places for the next number. Despite his praise for commerce, he ducks rather than approaches a portly woman all dressed in silks who has her mouth open to speak as they approach, diverting between a few broad-shouldered fellows who make a narrow passage that dumps out into the rim of people lining the square. It's during all this carefully fancy bobbing-and-weaving that he comments over his shoulder, "I try to keep it to two syllables every now and then," pretty, "or people think I'm being pretentious. And, given the company earlier, would it come as such a surprise if I was only making excuses? The daughter of Fort Seahold may be easy on the eyes, but she's hell on the nerves."
Faintly regretful, "No, I don't think you would have, but that's lovely of you to say, at least." If only Amerie could wake up perfect. Maybe she'd be in a better mood generally? Though she is amused by the first, both her hand folded between Maitrey's and his careful negotiation of the crowd - past a woman that might keep a few weavers in shoes with the cost of fabric alone - is a little less entertaining. She's distracted for a beat, glancing back behind her at the square through the aforementioned narrow passage - but still follows along. It's not as if she'd usually go out of her way to stick around and chat anyway. Eventually, "For your future reference, I have very little call to be calling anyone else pretentious, particularly while complimenting me. And no, making excuses would not surprise me in the least, but were you or weren't you?" Since direct questioning appears to be the only way to get an answer. Flatly, "Yes, well. Something my nerves will likely have to become accustomed to. I suppose I can just talk about clothes. That's currently the plan."
"No," Maitrey answers to that last question. "I wasn't only making excuses." Through the last rim of people, out into the open air at the edge of the square in between dancing and booths, the darkness a little more notable for having spent a fair amount of time beneath the bright lights, he swings the laced hands to his side instead of the small of his back and turns to look generically toward the next stream of illumiation: tents, booths, commerce in action. "But it was a convenient excuse, if also true. I don't envy you, Amerie, for having to tolerate the woman. For all the Weyr may have reason to be grateful for your work helping pave a friendship between itself and the Seahold, I'm happy to duck the responsibility, personally." To account for the peering toward the brightness, for still having her hand, he adds, "Do you need a drink, or should I let you go back and see if you can find the woman in enough silk to sail a ship? Make some money?"
"You've had a fairly good day, then - ducking out of irritating company, making money, pestering weavers..." Out of the press of the square, Amerie takes a deep breath of cool air, letting it out in a sigh - and immediately has to throw the wrap about herself a little more fully. Though less of an advertisement, it's warmer, especially out of the crowds and the lights. Letting her gaze drift up to the night sky, "I might have liked an excuse. I try not to work with people I can't stand, but it's rather like dominoes in this case - flick one over and the rest fall. As for paving friendships... I think that there might have been better people chosen for that mission." Some achieve diplomacy, some have it thrust upon them. Past the point of being too bothered with Maitrey keeping hold of her hand - maybe partially due to the chill - she glances towards the booths as well. Amused, "Are you offering to buy me a drink? I don't know if I should accept - as I recall, apprentices are not exactly awash in funds." For the ship of a woman, she looks back to the crowd with distaste, and no one in silks magically appears. "I don't know that I want to - go back into that. Though I likely should."
Bolstered, unrepentant, Maitrey agrees promptly, "I have, actually," had a good day. "Though, when I recount the day for myself, it will be 'dancing with a beautiful woman' instead of your 'pestering weavers' version." Away from the chill, toward the warm press of people, he draws on Amerie's hand once more. "If you're saying yes to that drink, then I'm offering, certainly. If only to keep you from having to 'go back into that,'" with a decent repetition of her tone if not really an echo of her voice specifically, "right away. A drink might be bolstering?" A glance goes to the wrap, some small disappointment conveyed in the look he issues to Amerie immediately after-- must she?-- and he adds, "It's also likely to be warmer over there, and I would feel awfully bad if I left you here shivering."
Though she's been quite open about her irritation, Amerie does feel the need to amend, "To be fair, you pestered me more beforehand than today - so I suppose your version could stand." Both the promise of warmth and Maitrey's pull on her hand have her showing less reluctance than she'd had for dancing; as they move back towards people and light, "As I said, I am unsure if I should accept. But if you insist..." After all, it's not her job to be concerned with the state of the harper's finances. For the mimicry of her tone, she wrinkles her nose again. Not /entirely/ defensive, "Well, it can be rather exhausting, maintaining even bare manners for everyone who wants to ask the same questions over and over." Even his small disappointment has her curving a slight smirk; wryly, "It's not /that/ warm. And I shouldn't have worn this, honestly. I knew it would be miserable, but I--" A pause. "I couldn't just leave it languishing till the spring."
"You call it pestering. I call it convincing." His smile acknowledges the semantics of it, not pressing the issue but completely comfortable with his own interpretation of events. Artistic license. Maitrey laughs briefly, brightly at the if-you-insist, shaking his head in a bit of lingering amusement about which he does not clarify while he leads through the open patch between dancers and drinkers, fast approaching a whole new crowd, this one smelling a whole lot more like beer and less like sweat. "It's debatable which aroma was preferable, isn't it," he muses with a light upturn of to the corner of his nose, sniffing a little yuckily. Her remark about her attire has him looking over quickly, brows furrowed. "What would you have worn otherwise?" As if he can fathom no alternative to this particular dress, all his imagination spent to come up with anything but /gold/. "Truly, not just as the little pervert I try to keep from peeking his opinions out now and then, you look /lovely/."
With an easy gesture of her free hand, "Whatever you want to call it." Amerie is fairly content with her own way of putting things, Maitrey's artistic license notwithstanding. The laughter is noted with a glance and a fine brow arched, but she doesn't ask - and though she wasn't quite at the shivering point, the windbreak and warmth of other bodies seems to be appreciated, even if spilled beer is less so. Attention now on anyone close enough to ruin her precious satin - paranoid! - she murmurs, "And you tell me people aren't so bad..." Dark eyes shift from the crowd at his question, clearly amused. "Maitrey, I have four proper gowns, and at least three outfits that I would consider passable for a semi-formal occasion. I have some choice." A meaningful look for the harper's own outfit; choice? Maybe a good thing. "The blue velvet, likely. Long sleeves, thicker - even if the neckline can be a bit much." Somehow, she manages /not/ to say anything or look snarky at 'little pervert' but, all too pleased with herself, "I know. Thank you, though."
To her mutter, Maitrey remarks, "I did say that we're not /all/ so terrible, not that all of us are not terrible." This while his elbow gets a little bump, sends a slosh of beer toward the ground which he side-steps-- without risking ruin to Amerie's gown. If all goes well, there will be drinks, he tends toward the good-old-fashioned beers and ales, personally, and he will eventually relinquish her company with a courteous hope that she enjoys the rest of the party, and a mutter about "the woman in the silks has been haunting your steps, by the way" before he takes his leave to be a good little harper and pay his respects.
"Mm." It's a non-answer, at best. Amerie fairly glares at the hapless passer-by who sends any liquid even near her dress. /That/ might make her mood a bit darker, but at least she's not pissed at Maitrey. And there are drinks, though she can't in good concience let him pay all that much for them; she sticks to white wine and not much of it - like she always says, she's not much fun. When they do part ways, she has her manners about herself enough to thank him again, and amazingly enough, she does not look like she had a completely horrific time. As for the woman in silks, the weaver can't avoid business forever, and drifts off the talk dresses before she gets too cold to bother.