[Log] Prying
Who: Breide, Ironeph, Quinley
When: Day 23, Month 12, Turn 441
Where: Nighthearth, Fort Weyr
What: Breide and Ironeph prod Quinley for information.
Nighthearth
Partially removed from the kitchen, the nighthearth is a small niche with a long, narrow tunnel leading to the inner Weyr. This is one of the coziest locations in the Weyr, and one of the few that doesn't seem hollow and abandoned. A large stone table, long enough to seat a half-dozen people on either side, sits immobile in the center of the area with wooden benches along it. A large fireplace always boasts a pot of klah, stew, and a basket of yesterday's bread. Three of the most comfortable chairs in the Weyr are here - deep, padded armchairs with horrid patterns to the upholstery but still greatly comfortable. Three wooden footstools accompany them, all arranged near the hearth.
This is the only place to catch a bite to eat at this hour. It's nighttime in the autumn. The fire on the hearth is low but warm.
Players:
Ironeph........6', athletic; olive skin, dark brown eyes & hair; early 20s.
Quinley........A short, skinny young woman with pale hair and green eyes.
Exits:
Inner Caverns.................[SW] Kitchen.......................[N]
Quinley
There are kinder ways to describe this girl's outline, but 'short' and 'scrawny' cover it most succinctly.
Light blonde hair is pulled back and braided up into a low, simple bun that rests at the nape of this young woman's neck. A few feathery wisps have worked their way free to halo a tanned, heart-shaped face with a chin that comes to a subtle point. Wide, round eyes are set beneath thin golden brows, their color a clear and vibrant green. Rather than coming across as pretty, their size and the fact that pale lashes seem not-there at certain angles leave her with an unintentionally intense gaze that can seem more jarring than inviting. Her nose is small and pert, lips thin and rosy.
A burgundey red tunic clothes this young woman's form from throat to hips, the heavy cloth fitting well enough to lightly outline the subtle curves of her slender frame. Shirt sleeves have been pushed up to her elbows revealing tanned arms with the thin ropey muscles that women's manual work can build. Hands are small, and long fingers end with blunt nails. A charcoal grey skirt begins a little before the tunic stops and falls down skinny legs to end just past her ankles. Simple boots, a light shade of brown, peep out from under the hem.
The top of the girl's head ends where the average woman's chin begins. She looks to be likely in her late teens.
Ironeph
About six feet tall and built along athletic lines, Ironeph is blessed with the dark, olive-tinted skin and dark brown hair more characteristic of a tropical climate. He keeps his hair close cropped, swept back off his forehead and to the right. Ironeph has brown eyes and thick dark brows above a straight nose and firm mouth, a slightly squared jawline framing his features. He seems to be in his early 20s.
Ironeph's clothes are in good condition, either relatively new or well-cared for, a pair of heavy dark brown pants and a long-sleeved shirt in a dusty green. His winter jacket is a little large on him, the sleeves and shoulder seams longer; based on its more worn condition, it's probably a hand-me-down.
It's late evening, and most of Fort Weyr has dispersed for the night. Around the nighthearth, however, there's still one group left at the big table, a boisterous cluster of young men chattering and laughing more like a bunch of teenage girls. But one by one, they trickle away, morning's call irresistable. Finally, only Ironeph is left, frowning after his last companion and drumming fingers idly on the table.
Quinley comes up from the living cavern around the same time the last (or nearly last) boy leaves. Quiet. Quiet is good. The healer moves over to pour herself a mug of klah and take a small helping of stew. Circles under her eyes and the girl's general posture suggest exhaustion. As she turns back around to claim a plush chair by the fire, Ironeph is spotted. A nod and a small smile is offered.
Ah, company, and auspicious company at that. Ironeph's dark eyes light up as he sees Quinley, and he offers her a broad smile. "Quin, hi," he hails her, as he disentangles his legs from the bench and saunters over to collapse in one of the other two soft chairs. "Infirmary keeping you up late?"
The healer settles herself into the chair, tucking her own legs up underneath her and setting her meal down on a table within easy reach. His question is answered with a nod ad then she asks, "How's the arm?"
"It's good, it's good," answers Ironeph, with a cursory glance over at his cut arm. "Healing up good, thanks to you. So, um. Thanks. Anyway." He pauses a moment, adjusting himself in the squishy chair. "Anyway," he repeats. "How're you? Busy, right?" Brows arch promptingly.
Quinley studies the lad sitting across from her in silence as he talks, brows lifting a little at his curiousity. "I am a bit," she agrees, reaching over to pick up her bowl and have a few bites. Chew chew swallow. "Was there something you needed?"
Breide has connected.
Breide
Wheat-gold hair, the color streaked with paler highlights presumably from hours in the sun, would fall to her elbows in straight silkiness had Breide not have coiled it at the nape of her neck. Attractive, in a common way, there's nothing particularly unique about her features, from the pale brows that arc over expressively warm brown eyes, to the slender ovular shape of her face that's filled with full lips and a sharp nose. The exception is the confidence that distinguishes her curvy five foot seven frame, mingled with the subtle arrogance of one aware of her looks and completely at home in her body.
Bright clothing, carefree in both style and coloring, wrap around Breide's frame in a flowing skirt and loose blouse. The sleeves flow, unfettered and uncuffed to her wrists, and the scoop neckline exposes only sharp collarbones, while her skirt reaches down to the girlish shoes on her feet. Vivacious blues and other ice colors make up the bulk of the young woman's attire, and a sisal scarf that matches her clothing is wrapped in a band just over her forehead.
Pure innocence. Ironeph blinks at Quinley, brows still arched. He and Quinley are seated opposite each other in the comfortable chairs by the hearth tonight. "Huh? Me, no, nothing at all," the handyman tells her, not particularly convincingly. "Just... thought you looked like you could use some company, and, well. Mine all deserted me, so. Hope I'm not bothering you?" As though that would be enough to get rid of him.
Quinley uhms..."no. It's fine. I'm just not very chatty tonight." Her gaze dips back down to the stew. Another few bites. Despite Ironeph's denials the healer can't quite help but feel he does, in fact, want something. Waiting is somethign she does well, however.
Ironeph's gaze is somewhat expectant, but when Quinley is reluctant to continue, he frowns and settles for prompting her again, in a decidedly casual tone. "So, I heard about what happened with Riss. That's just terrible, you know? I can't believe--she's going to be okay, right?"
Drawn by the scent of stew and the low heat offered by the hearth, Breide pauses at the entrance to the niche. One hand finds the wall as support, her hip swinging nonchalantly as she observes the occupants. Dark eyes flick over Ironeph, unsurprised at his attendance here, and then settle on Quinley before a small smile finds its way to her lips. "Good evening," she drawls brightly on the heel of Iro's query about Riss, swinging into the tiny enclosure with a whirl of her skirts.
Ah ha. It clicks in the sleepy healer's brain quite clearly and suddenly. He wants gossip. Quinley opens her mouth, abot to say something, but in that instant someone else swirls in all colors and charm. An unfamilair face, but Quinley still offers a nod and a "ggood evening," instead of whatever it was she was going to say.
Ironeph forwns ligthly, studying Quinley a moment more at her continued retincence before leaning back, canting his head up to regard the new arriva. "Evening, Breide," he greets the trader-girl. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
With two of the chairs occupied, it becomes Breide's duty to take over the third, and into it she settles herself, falling backwards into it with the slump of a weary day resting in the curl of her shoulders. "Iro, be a doll and live up to the title of gentleman and get me a bowl of stew? Please? Pretty?" Cracking open one lid, the warmth of the brown shade flicks to the handyman and conveniently ignores his suggestion of bedtime, and then shifts lazily to Quinley. "You're the healer, aren't you?" Even if the blonde's unfamiliar to Quinley, the embargo-defying healer is known, well enough it would seem, by the older woman. She's all charm in that sudden smile of both eyes wide open, "Breide. I've often admired your work."
"Hello then, Breide," Quinley offers, her own wide green eyes meeting the warmer brown. "Admired my work? I'm afraid I don't quite understand." A small smile. "Mark it up to lack of sleep." A glance is directed towards Ironeph, some curiousity to see if all that charm is effective in making him get up and fetch stew.
Snorting at Breide's words, Ironeph nonetheless stands and shuffles over to the pot of stew. Carelessly, he slops a ladleful into a bowl and then returns to sprawl in his seat after offering the bowl to Breide with a succint, "Here." Then, to Quinley: "Must've been some particularly fine stitches or something," he quips, not particularly humorful.
Ironeph's still on her 'not happy' list, despite his offering, and while she accepts with an equally terse, "Thanks," Breide's inhalation of the first few bites of her stew would indicate she's far more thankful for the food than she indicates. "Mmm," luxuriating in the heat offered by the stew, she sinks more comfortably back into the battered chair and uses the spoon as an extension of her finger to gesture at Quinley. "That you'd leave high comfort for some place like this," the spoon indicates the Weyr and then jabs lightly into the air between the pair, "Can't be very easy, I imagine, and could easily be something worth admiring. Maybe. Don't let me interrupt," wide-eyed innocence and further gesticulations of an empty spoon encourage the pair to keep talking about their prior conversation, "Riss, was it?"
To Breide's flattery Quinley replies, "Actually, it's easier than you might think." Her attention moves back to Ironeph, and she continues. "I expect Ironeph was hoping that the Assistant Headwoman would be the topic of conversation. However, there is such a thing as patient confidentiality. In response to your question, though, yes, Riss is recovering nicely." Her own bowl of stew is looked to, small serving diminished by several more bites.
Ironeph slides lower in his seat, stretched out gracelessly across the ugly old fabric. "Uh, yeah, something like that," he notes, with an airy wave of a hand. "After all that uproar the other day, I was just wondering..." Shrug. "That's good to hear, see," he adds, dipping his head toward Quinley. "I was just wondering." Defensive now. "I mean, I've known her forever, so I can be concerned, right?"
Breide, mid-spoon motion to mouth, eyes Ironeph and his sudden concern dubiously. "Still, it can't have been very easy at all." To her credit, the blonde sticks to her opinions, continuing blithely, "Has anyone else gotten ill as she has? Horrible if it were contagious."
The last of the stew is polished off, empty bowl set aside so the healer can pull up her knees, wrapping her arms around them, fingers clasping lightly. "Certainly you can be concerned," she says to Ironeph. She's just not providing details. To Breide she shakes her head. "No. I don't believe what Riss has is contagious, so I wouldn't worry about that."
There's a flicker of annoyance there, behind the lazy expression and Ironeph's drawled words. "Well, that's something, at least," he finally decides simply. A pause. "It's a good thing you did it, though," he switches topics.
A glance is spared Ironeph -- a glance that flicks very overtly to the crusty basket of bread and then back to him in a silent plea. "You're sure?" Breide presses of Quinley, even going as far to lean over her stew so the steam catches her chin damply. "There's talk that what caused her to slump over is actually some new sort of sickness, maybe a plague." The desire for information, dispelling self-created rumors really, that mingles with a touch of fear in her dark brown eyes fades at Iro's last. "Did it?"
Quinley huffs softly. "I think the last thing this weyr needs is some unfounded rumors of plague flying about," the younger girl says pointedly to Breide. For all that she has fewer turns on the trader, Quinley seems to take matters far more seriously. There's none of the playfulness or ease Breide displays about the healer. Ironeph is offered a quizzical look that echos Breide's question. "I'm sorry. Did what?"
"Left. Came here," Ironeph clarifies, brows knitting at their ignorance. He falls silent, shaking his head once at the pair of them. Breide's pointed glances, he doesn't notice. Or at least doesn't obey.
Breide also falls silent, berated nicely by Quinley. Her lower lip juts forward, a familiar enough look as she's oft seen with it when things don't go her way, and thoughts ruminate visibly in her eyes as she eats. "Lots of people people leave and come, or return. Not all lose their knot over such a decision though," points out the trader.
Quinley can only lift her shoulders helplessly, the gesture a bit funny looking considering her arms are still wrapped around her knees. "I knew what I was risking when I left," she says, "And I don't regret the decision." She then straightens out, sitting up. "And speaking of leaving, I really ought to be heading back."
Ironeph quirks a brow, shrugging himself. "It's easy to do stuff when you don't know what you're getting into," he notes then, offering a half-grin. "But, er. Yeah, don't let me keep you up too late. Gotta be up early, I guess? Night, Quin."
Breide has no further comments, instead dismissing Quinley from her attention as easily as it is to cant her head down to focus on her stew. She leaves the niceties to Ironeph as she fills her mouth.
"Goodnight, Ironeph," the healer says, a slight inflection on the young man's full name. Perhaps a subtle request that he do the same for her? She stands, taking her empty bowl, to be left in the kitchen, and her mug, to be brought with her wherever she's headed. "Good to have met you, Breide," is offered to the other girl, but the healer doesn't wait long for a reply that isn't coming. She heads off towards in Inner Caverns.
Quinley heads down the tunnel to the inner caverns.
Quinley has left.
Ironeph only offers Quinley on last smile as she departs, eyes watching her until she rounds a corner and disappears down the tunnel. Then, he turned to eye Breide. "A /plague/?"
Breide feigns innocence, "What? I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't be catching anything disgusting." With a full spoon, she waves irritably at the exit, "She's too serious for her own good."
Ironeph rolls his eyes, feigning disgust with Breide's methods. "What? You know well as I do there's no plague circulating around," he tells her. But, distracted, he adds, "Yeah, well. I think it comes with the job, these days. You ever met a funny healer?"
The fact that Breide actually has to give that a moment's thought says volumes for just how much she's ever cared to think of healers or sickness. "No, but I make it a habit of not crossing paths too often with a healer. There's a cloud of," unable to find a word, she just waves with her free hand, silenced also by the shove of the spoon into her mouth. Bless the chewing, and some semblance of polite behavior.
Ironeph frowns at that, glancing away. "Yeah," he finally agrees, nodding once, slowly. "So, I... guess I better be going," adds the young man after a moment, shuffling to his feet. "Night, Breide. Don't stay up too late--you're a pain in the mornings," he teases her lightly.
Breide's spoon lodges into the thick stew and after a moment's hesitation, she allows a quiet, "Wait. Please."
Ironeph pauses where he stands, turning to glance around at Breide. Brows arch, silent encouragement: he's listening.
The hesitation wins though, and instead Breide flashes a distant smile. "Nothing, never mind. Good night, Iro." Mirroring Quinley's actions before, she draws her knees up, resting the bowl on the bent knees. With a slight turn, she regards the fire instead of Ironeph, allowing the dim light to cast funny shadows on her profile.
Ironeph frowns at that, furrowing brows. "Yeah, well. Night," he repeats, studying her from the side a moment longer before turning and slipping out, toward the inner caverns.