Vignette: Torn
Later that night, after having spent a good portion of the day spent hunched over the sail, the former southerner swung back and forth in her hammock, discontented. A hand reached down and extracted the almost empty bottle of whiskey lying on a nearby shelf. The same bottle ‘gifted’ her and Evaly the night of their dinner together. The one she hadn’t actually finished off there and then. There wasn’t much left any more, just a mouthful or two.
Lifting the bottle up so that the glass glinted dully in the light of a glowbasket, Bailey swung it back and forth watching the contents swish softly about inside. Her mouth pulled into a disgruntled line. That’s about how her life felt to her right now; swishing around back and forth before her eyes, bringing with it a sense of seasickness, a condition foreign to her.
She didn’t like how things were shaping up. On the one hand, there were the people she’d met and friendships starting to form. Friendships she was beginning to like the idea of having and wanted to keep. There were the deals she was starting to put together to bear in mind too. Her mouth pulled into a warm pattern as the image of the brownrider from The Beach House came to mind; kind, easy to spend time with and no strings attached. Unless of course you counted the promises made to him for delivery of urchins and saffron. Her expression crumpled a little. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting him down. Not after the trust he’d put in her. No, another visit to the Orchid Rain was going to have to be arranged. Somehow.
She went over the conversation had with Nenita that morning, her eyes pulling toward where the Orchid Rain was docked unseen alongside. A frown formed again. At this rate she was going to have frown lines before she hit thirty turns. Eyeing the bottle in her hands again, she uncorked it. Putting her lips to it, the brunette took a mouthful from it, savouring the sharp flavour before allowing it to slide down her throat. Lids closed as it burned down her throat and sent warmth into her belly, a slow smile formed. Yes, she’d take the weyrwoman’s advice. She started to feel vaguely nauseous. Not because the idea of bedding the skipper was reprehensible. In fact, quite the opposite as far as she was concerned. Warmth of a different kind bled through her senses. What bothered her was the idea of doing so and then raiding his cargo hold.
“Aaargh!” the sound of frustration shot out. Since when did it bother her who got used (defined as hurt) in the pursuit of her goals!? Since the great big skipper had played hide-and-go-seek with her from behind a surfboard. That’s when! Those things should be banned. They were dangerous! Just look at the predicament they got a person into. Another wave of nausea rose up. Maybe if she just asked he’d -give- her the spices she needed? Yes, and maybe he’d just hand over the wheel to the Orchid Rain and his crew and let her call it all her own too. Snort! And, why did he have to go and give her that stupid flower and complicate everything!?
A clap of thunder from the storm that had been gathering boomed overhead startling the young woman to such an extent that she tumbled out of her hammock, the bottle of whisky crashing to the floor and shattering. Gathering herself up onto her hands and knees she stared down at the pieces, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. Something inside of her warned of this being a bad omen. The nausea rose up strong and insistent ensuring that she barely made it outside and to the railing before the meagre contents of her stomach emptied themselves.
She made herself, sick.
Lifting the bottle up so that the glass glinted dully in the light of a glowbasket, Bailey swung it back and forth watching the contents swish softly about inside. Her mouth pulled into a disgruntled line. That’s about how her life felt to her right now; swishing around back and forth before her eyes, bringing with it a sense of seasickness, a condition foreign to her.
She didn’t like how things were shaping up. On the one hand, there were the people she’d met and friendships starting to form. Friendships she was beginning to like the idea of having and wanted to keep. There were the deals she was starting to put together to bear in mind too. Her mouth pulled into a warm pattern as the image of the brownrider from The Beach House came to mind; kind, easy to spend time with and no strings attached. Unless of course you counted the promises made to him for delivery of urchins and saffron. Her expression crumpled a little. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting him down. Not after the trust he’d put in her. No, another visit to the Orchid Rain was going to have to be arranged. Somehow.
She went over the conversation had with Nenita that morning, her eyes pulling toward where the Orchid Rain was docked unseen alongside. A frown formed again. At this rate she was going to have frown lines before she hit thirty turns. Eyeing the bottle in her hands again, she uncorked it. Putting her lips to it, the brunette took a mouthful from it, savouring the sharp flavour before allowing it to slide down her throat. Lids closed as it burned down her throat and sent warmth into her belly, a slow smile formed. Yes, she’d take the weyrwoman’s advice. She started to feel vaguely nauseous. Not because the idea of bedding the skipper was reprehensible. In fact, quite the opposite as far as she was concerned. Warmth of a different kind bled through her senses. What bothered her was the idea of doing so and then raiding his cargo hold.
“Aaargh!” the sound of frustration shot out. Since when did it bother her who got used (defined as hurt) in the pursuit of her goals!? Since the great big skipper had played hide-and-go-seek with her from behind a surfboard. That’s when! Those things should be banned. They were dangerous! Just look at the predicament they got a person into. Another wave of nausea rose up. Maybe if she just asked he’d -give- her the spices she needed? Yes, and maybe he’d just hand over the wheel to the Orchid Rain and his crew and let her call it all her own too. Snort! And, why did he have to go and give her that stupid flower and complicate everything!?
A clap of thunder from the storm that had been gathering boomed overhead startling the young woman to such an extent that she tumbled out of her hammock, the bottle of whisky crashing to the floor and shattering. Gathering herself up onto her hands and knees she stared down at the pieces, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. Something inside of her warned of this being a bad omen. The nausea rose up strong and insistent ensuring that she barely made it outside and to the railing before the meagre contents of her stomach emptied themselves.
She made herself, sick.