[Evaly] Vaughan might be among the undead.
RL Date: 6/23/10
IC Date: 1/9/23
Docks, Ista Weyr(#450RJ)
Like fingers stretching out to sea, Ista's dockyards provide plenty of room to berth the ships that ply their trade here. Stone pilings support the wooden planking, the whole sturdy and well-worn from the constant traffic of the sailors and dockworkers that come and go with the tide. Thick posts march along both sides of the docks, rising half a man-height; from a few of them dangle salt-swollen and sun-bleached ropes. The ocean murmurs and slops at the pilings, rarely stretching itself to make the planks more than damp. A short distance to the east lies the Sandbar and out across the water distant shapes outline the small islands that dot Ista's famous black sand coastline.
Early afternoon sees the docks busy with the hoists and chains; a massive ship with massive cargo is to be unloaded today, and great crates of Istan crops and fruits considered exotic elsewhere are at ready to be sent away. It is not a shift change time for the men (and women) who work here, but one of them is checking out with the dockmaster anyway. After that, he trods with sandals slapping his heels toward shore, along the way pulling off damp shirt to hang it like a towel over his shoulder. He is lank-haired, sweaty, a man of labor, and he stares at the planks a few feet ahead of his stride without seeing them as he walks.
The docks usually aren't the best place for young women to wind up strolling along, eating fruit out of one hand and frowning at paperwork carried in the other, but Evaly measures out the wood beneath her feet in a wholly distracted stride. She seems to know where she's going generally by memory, barely glancing up to be sure the left-turn she's making is the right one, trusting her feet to find their way without her giving them much attention. Despite all this, despite the fact that she's just as culpable for walking a path that will likely have her trodding all over Sweaty-and-Shirtless there, he's bound to get blamed for it. Because that's how girls work.
Sweaty-and-Shirtless draws up short but an inch or so from Bailey, having clicked to awareness a moment too late to smoothly avoid her that the feet that just appeared in his field of vision aren't his own. Off-balance, he jerks back, hauling up his head with an expression quite startled and prepared to be angry-- but that gleam dies quickly and leaves his eyes heavy and nearly without life. "Sorry, ma'am," he grates out, and sidesteps, to leave her more of the planks on which to pass him by.
No longer-lived than his potential anger is Evaly's readiness to take umbrage, her breath sucked in hastily, her steps braked abruptly, and a general tenseness of frame carried all the way up to a lift of her chin. But then he apologizes and the world is as it should be, leaving her with a quick, forgiving smile; "Don't worry about it. No harm done." On second thought-- "Except for the 'ma'am' bit. You'll make a person feel old like that, fair warning."
The dockhand's head tips in a gesture intended respectfully, but possibly difficult to interpret, and after a beat he does as he's been cued and actually looks at her-- just in the face, really, though perhaps peripheral vision shows him more than that. "Sorry," he repeats, and corrects himself with a flash of grin that gleams too-white teeth in a frame of curled lips. "Miss." And then he shoves up sandy brows like they weight a ton and waits: better?
An unvoiced answer for an unvoiced question. Better? And she tibbles her palm in the air, holding her half-eaten apple between thumb and forefinger to splay out her other fingers and teeter a so-so gesture that matches a so-so expression. "But I appreciate the effort, anyway." She starts along the way she was going, a solid three steps before there's an abrupt turn and, none of her business or not, she adds back at him, "Are you okay?" By all indicators, it's genuine concern.
So they go on their ways, Vaughan a little more slowly than the apple-eater; so-so, apparently, is good enough for him. But he's barely turned about when her voice comes back at him, and he turns to face her because that's what a gentleman does, and gravely replies, "Yes." Again with the slow-pushed brows, but this time with a little jerk of smirk, bemused: "You?"
Evaly's quick-- "Yes." She nods, even, like that somehow proves it, and reiterates, "Yes. I'm fine." Excepting what's now become a fairly obvious state of confusion that has her brows knit and all. "Are you sure? Not that I know you at all, but you seem..." She trails off, trusting that he can fill in the blank. Okay, so it's as much general nosiness as general concern.
"Shady?" He says it with a kind of tired amusement, and trods back the way he came, toward the girl he almost bowled over. Or who almost bowled him over, but that's not how the apologies played it. He glances down at his hand, gives it a scrub on his pants (this improves the hand but surely not the pants) and offers it to her. "Vaughan. I work here. Better?" He hasn't bothered to let the brows sink again, so at least he's spared the heavy effort of shoving them back up to punctuate his question.
Stepping right on the end of his guess, Evaly clarifies, "Lethargic." Though, after a more careful survey to include her own eyes narrowing thoughtfully, she concedes, "Also shady, yes." Perhaps it has to do with the fact that the general state of him is none too clean, but she sends over an apologetic smile in answer to the offered hand, holding up her own to indicate their preoccupations: apple in one, paper in the other, sorry. "Better in that it addresses shady, yes, but not really better in the lack of address to the fact that you seem about a half-step away from a sudden collapse."
Vaughan makes no apology for 'lethargic,' but his eyes sharpen a little as Evaly rejects his handshake and makes no signs of returning his introduction. The hand she didn't want hangs by a thumb from the pocket of his pants and Vaughan squints at her, weary amusement fading in favor of simple weariness. "You ever worked here?"
Looking down at the planks underfoot, over her shoulder at the busy-ness going on with the unloading, then back to Vaughan finally, Evaly clarifies, "Here as in the docks? No." Her own brows climb questioningly, only they do so without looking like there are lead weights attached to each of them; "Why? Does that somehow account for the fact that you look like the walking dead?" Both tone and smile are suddenly bright, like she can, by virtue of being all sunshiney, make that sound like it's not a total insult.
Gray eyes squint now mostly because the backdrop against which Evaly's standing is the bright one of the midday ocean and sky, interrupted only by the high relief of boats and sails and the dock itself. And Evaly. Even narrowed, Vaughan's squint is heavy-- dead, if she likes. "Try it sometime," he suggests, as his answer. "Course, th'fellows'll go easy on you. Might not make much impression. Why so concerned?"
"Thank you, no," she says to the former, takes a pointed look down at her bicep then at his, eyes narrowing skeptically. As to the latter question, Evaly resumes the earlier expression, the bright one, and answers pleasantly, "I'm not sure. Perhaps I don't care for the idea of tripping over bodies if I have to come back down here later? Or it could be--" Like this is suddenly realized and ever so shocking. "--simple human decency? I get those confused."
"Oh. Well." Vaughan sounds appropriately put off-center, but he just stands there with his thumb in his pocket and his steely dead squint and his nearly-expressionless mouth looking at Evaly, an immobile fixture in grubby sandals and cloth and skin. "Thanks. Appreciate it." Not immobile after all-- now it's his turn to mock departure, angling away like he's going to head on up toward shore. But of course he turns half back and looks at Evaly again, and asks, "What /do/ you do?"
Maybe it's just to make up for his utter lack of animation that Evaly does things like rocks onto her toes, fans herself with the paper she's still bearing, just little natural things every now and then during this whole exchange. It ends with another smile, of the faretheewell variety; perhaps she took it as a genuine parting of ways, so that, when he resumes, she cocks her head for a second, turning back with a quick, "I'm sorry?" Blink. "Oh, do? Isn't ensuring the general welfare of the dockhands quite enough occupation for one person?"
"Suppose that depends on who you ask," replies Vaughan, sour but in the smallest increment-- in the main, he is as lively as gravel and just as pleasant to hear. He comes a little closer again, however, and takes her seriously for sport or to extend his chances of getting an answer, whichever is better: "So you work /for/ the docks but not on them?"
"Yes." And there's no tell of a lie in the prompt, succinct answer, in the quick nod that accompanies it. Evaly leans forward a touch in turn, closing a fractional further distance between them to add with something of a conspiracy in the whispered words, "I also sell bridges, if you're in the market."
Gray eyes loosen from their squint in the relief from sunglare that Evlay's closeness lends them, but when they go wide they also die, and it is with that dead stare that Vaughan regards her. "Gotcha," he replies, and backs up. "Well, you lookin' for buyers, try the market. These guys," and he encompasses his peers, the men who work here at the lowest level of value, carriers of heavy cargo and throwers of ropes and cleaners of planks and platforms, with a short gesture of one hand. "Make about th'same that I do."
Evaly seems, for a moment, like she might let it go. Like she'll withdraw and finally go on about her business, whatever that business is, but. Well. Clearly 'ignore it and mind your own business' has not yet been engraved upon her psyche. Instead, with a suddenness-- "I'm sorry, you do realize that I wasn't being literal, right? I'm not sure I'm keen to have people think I actually sell bridges." Which is kind of like saying 'you seem awfully stupid so I better double-check,' just not in so many words.
Vaughan is good at staring. The fact that his eyes are so nearly devoid of life does not make their focus any less tight, their keenness any less clear. "I understood," he assures her, with a thinner rasp to his voice, one that might contain a warning. "You realize I was suggesting this ain't th'best place for a swindle, right? Wasn't literal." And he is not angry, per se; perhaps he is a little tired, although this has been established already.
Hanging for a second, waiting for something more from him that's clearly not coming, as evidenced by the solid ten seconds of silence that Evaly permits to elapse with her wearing an expectant expression the whole time... Finally; "I'm sorry. Let's start over." There's a show of patience when she folds her paper in half, puts it in her pocket, pitches her half-eaten apple off to the side so that it lands with a splashy-plop in the water, and leaves her free to offer her hand, by now very belatedly. "Hi, I'm Evaly. I don't work here. I understand that you're Vaughan, and that you do work here. Lovely to meet you."
Vaughan coughs up a short, sharp laugh, a single syllable like a raspy bark, but he hefts his hand up from its hang on his pocket and puts it in Evaly's with a possibly unexpected warmth. "Well met, Evaly." And again the tip of his head, a gesture of respect so ingrained it's practically like a tic, before he clasps her hand and releases it again. "What brings y't'the docks t'day?"
To be extra-super effusive, Evaly briefly covers the back of Vaughan's hand with her left hand, just that little bit more. She doesn't even wipe off her hands afterwards, though she does tuck them behind her back, now that they haven't got any other distractions. "I'm really fighting the urge to say, 'My feet, you saw that part,'" she confesses on the backside of a deep breath. "So. I have a friend-slash-possible business partner who stays down here, and I was going to poke my head in for a bit. And I do hope I'm not keeping you from getting something cold to drink, you look like you could use it."
"Do you? Good t'hear. Like t'know business as usual's carrying on. Good for staying employed." Vaughan patters. He could be good at it, if he would lend his voice a little more range of pitch and intonation, or let his face do anything except sit there looking respectfully, squint-eyedly, blank. It does liven just a little, with a tightening in the corner of his mouth that might be ominous of a smile, when he says, "Was thinking about it. Don't mind a little delay. Mind I ask who you're meeting?"
Filling in the enthusiasm that he lacks (leading by example?), Evaly answers, "Actually, I'm not. Employed. But I am the most gainfully unemployed person you're likely to meet on any given afternoon, if that helps keep your spirits up?" With one finger, she taps the corner of her mouth, then points it toward what's not quite actually happening with Vaughan's there; commit to it! "Not at all. Perhaps you can even answer for me if she's about. Bailey?"
Up go the dockhand's brows at that: gainfully unemployed. And his mouth parts like he's going to speak, but then Evaly's finger comes up to the side of her mouth and, ever the gentleman (sort of), Vaughan holds his peace, taking her gesture as a thoughtful one. It's not until she's pointing at him-- which actually backs him up a step, like, what?-- that he realizes otherwise, and the twitching tightening is gone by then. "Haven't seen her. Usually means no, but-- " He pauses. Makes better of it. "Probably not on the Star anyway. But won't stop you checking?" And he sidesteps again, not that he needs to this time if Evaly's going to go on toward the ships at dock, and puts out his hand so as to let her go if she likes.
Apologizing with her hedging tone even while she says it, Evaly comments, "It won't stop me checking, true. If only because you don't look especially observant." This time, finally, there's no 'one more thing' turn back, just her picking up the delayed path-- without the apple and the hide to distract her, which means no one else has to suffer her pestering, at least. Kind of makes Vaughan seem charitable, if you look at it like that, community service.
Vaughan smiles at Evaly's back. Something she said, no doubt, but the reaction comes far too late for her to exult in her hard-won triumph. He turns, and heads, as promised, for a bar.
IC Date: 1/9/23
Docks, Ista Weyr(#450RJ)
Like fingers stretching out to sea, Ista's dockyards provide plenty of room to berth the ships that ply their trade here. Stone pilings support the wooden planking, the whole sturdy and well-worn from the constant traffic of the sailors and dockworkers that come and go with the tide. Thick posts march along both sides of the docks, rising half a man-height; from a few of them dangle salt-swollen and sun-bleached ropes. The ocean murmurs and slops at the pilings, rarely stretching itself to make the planks more than damp. A short distance to the east lies the Sandbar and out across the water distant shapes outline the small islands that dot Ista's famous black sand coastline.
Early afternoon sees the docks busy with the hoists and chains; a massive ship with massive cargo is to be unloaded today, and great crates of Istan crops and fruits considered exotic elsewhere are at ready to be sent away. It is not a shift change time for the men (and women) who work here, but one of them is checking out with the dockmaster anyway. After that, he trods with sandals slapping his heels toward shore, along the way pulling off damp shirt to hang it like a towel over his shoulder. He is lank-haired, sweaty, a man of labor, and he stares at the planks a few feet ahead of his stride without seeing them as he walks.
The docks usually aren't the best place for young women to wind up strolling along, eating fruit out of one hand and frowning at paperwork carried in the other, but Evaly measures out the wood beneath her feet in a wholly distracted stride. She seems to know where she's going generally by memory, barely glancing up to be sure the left-turn she's making is the right one, trusting her feet to find their way without her giving them much attention. Despite all this, despite the fact that she's just as culpable for walking a path that will likely have her trodding all over Sweaty-and-Shirtless there, he's bound to get blamed for it. Because that's how girls work.
Sweaty-and-Shirtless draws up short but an inch or so from Bailey, having clicked to awareness a moment too late to smoothly avoid her that the feet that just appeared in his field of vision aren't his own. Off-balance, he jerks back, hauling up his head with an expression quite startled and prepared to be angry-- but that gleam dies quickly and leaves his eyes heavy and nearly without life. "Sorry, ma'am," he grates out, and sidesteps, to leave her more of the planks on which to pass him by.
No longer-lived than his potential anger is Evaly's readiness to take umbrage, her breath sucked in hastily, her steps braked abruptly, and a general tenseness of frame carried all the way up to a lift of her chin. But then he apologizes and the world is as it should be, leaving her with a quick, forgiving smile; "Don't worry about it. No harm done." On second thought-- "Except for the 'ma'am' bit. You'll make a person feel old like that, fair warning."
The dockhand's head tips in a gesture intended respectfully, but possibly difficult to interpret, and after a beat he does as he's been cued and actually looks at her-- just in the face, really, though perhaps peripheral vision shows him more than that. "Sorry," he repeats, and corrects himself with a flash of grin that gleams too-white teeth in a frame of curled lips. "Miss." And then he shoves up sandy brows like they weight a ton and waits: better?
An unvoiced answer for an unvoiced question. Better? And she tibbles her palm in the air, holding her half-eaten apple between thumb and forefinger to splay out her other fingers and teeter a so-so gesture that matches a so-so expression. "But I appreciate the effort, anyway." She starts along the way she was going, a solid three steps before there's an abrupt turn and, none of her business or not, she adds back at him, "Are you okay?" By all indicators, it's genuine concern.
So they go on their ways, Vaughan a little more slowly than the apple-eater; so-so, apparently, is good enough for him. But he's barely turned about when her voice comes back at him, and he turns to face her because that's what a gentleman does, and gravely replies, "Yes." Again with the slow-pushed brows, but this time with a little jerk of smirk, bemused: "You?"
Evaly's quick-- "Yes." She nods, even, like that somehow proves it, and reiterates, "Yes. I'm fine." Excepting what's now become a fairly obvious state of confusion that has her brows knit and all. "Are you sure? Not that I know you at all, but you seem..." She trails off, trusting that he can fill in the blank. Okay, so it's as much general nosiness as general concern.
"Shady?" He says it with a kind of tired amusement, and trods back the way he came, toward the girl he almost bowled over. Or who almost bowled him over, but that's not how the apologies played it. He glances down at his hand, gives it a scrub on his pants (this improves the hand but surely not the pants) and offers it to her. "Vaughan. I work here. Better?" He hasn't bothered to let the brows sink again, so at least he's spared the heavy effort of shoving them back up to punctuate his question.
Stepping right on the end of his guess, Evaly clarifies, "Lethargic." Though, after a more careful survey to include her own eyes narrowing thoughtfully, she concedes, "Also shady, yes." Perhaps it has to do with the fact that the general state of him is none too clean, but she sends over an apologetic smile in answer to the offered hand, holding up her own to indicate their preoccupations: apple in one, paper in the other, sorry. "Better in that it addresses shady, yes, but not really better in the lack of address to the fact that you seem about a half-step away from a sudden collapse."
Vaughan makes no apology for 'lethargic,' but his eyes sharpen a little as Evaly rejects his handshake and makes no signs of returning his introduction. The hand she didn't want hangs by a thumb from the pocket of his pants and Vaughan squints at her, weary amusement fading in favor of simple weariness. "You ever worked here?"
Looking down at the planks underfoot, over her shoulder at the busy-ness going on with the unloading, then back to Vaughan finally, Evaly clarifies, "Here as in the docks? No." Her own brows climb questioningly, only they do so without looking like there are lead weights attached to each of them; "Why? Does that somehow account for the fact that you look like the walking dead?" Both tone and smile are suddenly bright, like she can, by virtue of being all sunshiney, make that sound like it's not a total insult.
Gray eyes squint now mostly because the backdrop against which Evaly's standing is the bright one of the midday ocean and sky, interrupted only by the high relief of boats and sails and the dock itself. And Evaly. Even narrowed, Vaughan's squint is heavy-- dead, if she likes. "Try it sometime," he suggests, as his answer. "Course, th'fellows'll go easy on you. Might not make much impression. Why so concerned?"
"Thank you, no," she says to the former, takes a pointed look down at her bicep then at his, eyes narrowing skeptically. As to the latter question, Evaly resumes the earlier expression, the bright one, and answers pleasantly, "I'm not sure. Perhaps I don't care for the idea of tripping over bodies if I have to come back down here later? Or it could be--" Like this is suddenly realized and ever so shocking. "--simple human decency? I get those confused."
"Oh. Well." Vaughan sounds appropriately put off-center, but he just stands there with his thumb in his pocket and his steely dead squint and his nearly-expressionless mouth looking at Evaly, an immobile fixture in grubby sandals and cloth and skin. "Thanks. Appreciate it." Not immobile after all-- now it's his turn to mock departure, angling away like he's going to head on up toward shore. But of course he turns half back and looks at Evaly again, and asks, "What /do/ you do?"
Maybe it's just to make up for his utter lack of animation that Evaly does things like rocks onto her toes, fans herself with the paper she's still bearing, just little natural things every now and then during this whole exchange. It ends with another smile, of the faretheewell variety; perhaps she took it as a genuine parting of ways, so that, when he resumes, she cocks her head for a second, turning back with a quick, "I'm sorry?" Blink. "Oh, do? Isn't ensuring the general welfare of the dockhands quite enough occupation for one person?"
"Suppose that depends on who you ask," replies Vaughan, sour but in the smallest increment-- in the main, he is as lively as gravel and just as pleasant to hear. He comes a little closer again, however, and takes her seriously for sport or to extend his chances of getting an answer, whichever is better: "So you work /for/ the docks but not on them?"
"Yes." And there's no tell of a lie in the prompt, succinct answer, in the quick nod that accompanies it. Evaly leans forward a touch in turn, closing a fractional further distance between them to add with something of a conspiracy in the whispered words, "I also sell bridges, if you're in the market."
Gray eyes loosen from their squint in the relief from sunglare that Evlay's closeness lends them, but when they go wide they also die, and it is with that dead stare that Vaughan regards her. "Gotcha," he replies, and backs up. "Well, you lookin' for buyers, try the market. These guys," and he encompasses his peers, the men who work here at the lowest level of value, carriers of heavy cargo and throwers of ropes and cleaners of planks and platforms, with a short gesture of one hand. "Make about th'same that I do."
Evaly seems, for a moment, like she might let it go. Like she'll withdraw and finally go on about her business, whatever that business is, but. Well. Clearly 'ignore it and mind your own business' has not yet been engraved upon her psyche. Instead, with a suddenness-- "I'm sorry, you do realize that I wasn't being literal, right? I'm not sure I'm keen to have people think I actually sell bridges." Which is kind of like saying 'you seem awfully stupid so I better double-check,' just not in so many words.
Vaughan is good at staring. The fact that his eyes are so nearly devoid of life does not make their focus any less tight, their keenness any less clear. "I understood," he assures her, with a thinner rasp to his voice, one that might contain a warning. "You realize I was suggesting this ain't th'best place for a swindle, right? Wasn't literal." And he is not angry, per se; perhaps he is a little tired, although this has been established already.
Hanging for a second, waiting for something more from him that's clearly not coming, as evidenced by the solid ten seconds of silence that Evaly permits to elapse with her wearing an expectant expression the whole time... Finally; "I'm sorry. Let's start over." There's a show of patience when she folds her paper in half, puts it in her pocket, pitches her half-eaten apple off to the side so that it lands with a splashy-plop in the water, and leaves her free to offer her hand, by now very belatedly. "Hi, I'm Evaly. I don't work here. I understand that you're Vaughan, and that you do work here. Lovely to meet you."
Vaughan coughs up a short, sharp laugh, a single syllable like a raspy bark, but he hefts his hand up from its hang on his pocket and puts it in Evaly's with a possibly unexpected warmth. "Well met, Evaly." And again the tip of his head, a gesture of respect so ingrained it's practically like a tic, before he clasps her hand and releases it again. "What brings y't'the docks t'day?"
To be extra-super effusive, Evaly briefly covers the back of Vaughan's hand with her left hand, just that little bit more. She doesn't even wipe off her hands afterwards, though she does tuck them behind her back, now that they haven't got any other distractions. "I'm really fighting the urge to say, 'My feet, you saw that part,'" she confesses on the backside of a deep breath. "So. I have a friend-slash-possible business partner who stays down here, and I was going to poke my head in for a bit. And I do hope I'm not keeping you from getting something cold to drink, you look like you could use it."
"Do you? Good t'hear. Like t'know business as usual's carrying on. Good for staying employed." Vaughan patters. He could be good at it, if he would lend his voice a little more range of pitch and intonation, or let his face do anything except sit there looking respectfully, squint-eyedly, blank. It does liven just a little, with a tightening in the corner of his mouth that might be ominous of a smile, when he says, "Was thinking about it. Don't mind a little delay. Mind I ask who you're meeting?"
Filling in the enthusiasm that he lacks (leading by example?), Evaly answers, "Actually, I'm not. Employed. But I am the most gainfully unemployed person you're likely to meet on any given afternoon, if that helps keep your spirits up?" With one finger, she taps the corner of her mouth, then points it toward what's not quite actually happening with Vaughan's there; commit to it! "Not at all. Perhaps you can even answer for me if she's about. Bailey?"
Up go the dockhand's brows at that: gainfully unemployed. And his mouth parts like he's going to speak, but then Evaly's finger comes up to the side of her mouth and, ever the gentleman (sort of), Vaughan holds his peace, taking her gesture as a thoughtful one. It's not until she's pointing at him-- which actually backs him up a step, like, what?-- that he realizes otherwise, and the twitching tightening is gone by then. "Haven't seen her. Usually means no, but-- " He pauses. Makes better of it. "Probably not on the Star anyway. But won't stop you checking?" And he sidesteps again, not that he needs to this time if Evaly's going to go on toward the ships at dock, and puts out his hand so as to let her go if she likes.
Apologizing with her hedging tone even while she says it, Evaly comments, "It won't stop me checking, true. If only because you don't look especially observant." This time, finally, there's no 'one more thing' turn back, just her picking up the delayed path-- without the apple and the hide to distract her, which means no one else has to suffer her pestering, at least. Kind of makes Vaughan seem charitable, if you look at it like that, community service.
Vaughan smiles at Evaly's back. Something she said, no doubt, but the reaction comes far too late for her to exult in her hard-won triumph. He turns, and heads, as promised, for a bar.