Why are you here
12-28-2006 (Laelle, Reyce):
It's lunchtime and the commons are busy with a variety of activities. Some students bustle from classes, eager to dump their books and run off to eat. Others are munching on tidbits of their meals while they hurry off to study. Others still are settling in with a bit of food to do their studying amid the general chaos. It's probably no surprise that Laelle is one of that last group. She has an apple and a cup of tea and a plate that's already been picked over. She's claimed a table this time, with room for her books. Those prime seats by the fire are already occupied. The slim woman crunches a bite off her apple and lets out a heavy sigh as she bends lower over her book and scribbles something on her notepad.
It's probably no surprise that Reyce is one of that last group, as well. At least as far as the food goes: he has no books to hand, only his lunch of cold foods, wisely chosen to survive the trip across the bowl. Even so, he has opted for two plates - one to carry the food, the other to keep windblown ice from striking it - and as soon as he enters the commons, his first task is to find a table so he can set the things down while he goes to get klah. Since the most convenient seats are taken, he goes for the next most handy, a table right next to Laelle's. He lingers there only a moment, stripping off his heavy overcoat so he doesn't go from a freeze to a boil, and then he takes off to get a drink from the hearth area.
Despite the food and the book, it's the sigh that really says the most about Laelle's current state of mind. Frustrated perhaps, or bored. Either way, easily distracted. She'd probably have to be blind to miss the tall man shucking off a jacket so close to her, nevermind the chill of cold that might still cling or the distinct scene ot outdoors that certainly lingers on him. She looks up to watch Reyce, pausing in the middle of chewing, her pencil still pressed to the paper, to let her eyes follow as he removes the overcoat and heads towards the hearth.
Reyce brings his fair share of both cold and scent, the outdoors mingled with the sweet smell of something that's still hiding under that second plate. Moments later, he adds to that the warmth of fresh klah, carried right up under his nose as he takes a drink while still walking with it. He meets Laelle's eye over the rim of his mug, catching her glance and registering it, but he does nothing about it. Another glance takes in the work laid out on the table before her, and then he just drops into his own seat next door, careful not to slosh the klah as he does.
Laelle just keeps watching like a disembodied pair of eyes. She watches him manage to drink and walk at the same time, stares plainly at him when he looks at her and at her table, watches when he settles into his nearby seat. She breaths in deeply, lips closed and returns her attention to her book. Her lashes may lower, lids all ash and darkness, but there is no flicker of eyes skimming across the page. Her pencil remains frozen and she only barely starts to resume chewing, a slow steady roll of the food in her mouth.
Reyce, even with his overcoat shed, still has his beaten leather jacket on under the mix, and this he keeps when he settles into the chair. They are, after all, not very close to the fire. He takes a moment to settle his jacket correctly, after the movement of the overcoat hauled it off to one side, and then digs into his food, lifting the top plate off with all the style of a chef revealing his master meal and none of the relish. It's not a meal to get excited about, really: a sandwich, and a collection of fruits whose juice leaks into the bread and stains it a dull pink. Reyce digs a fork out of his pocket and gets to work scraping the fruit away before they can do any more damage.
With her mouthful gone, Laelle lifts her head again and resumes watching Reyce. But it's different this time. Her lashes are narrowed, there's tension around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her head is cocked to one side. This is not her usual expression, that impassive mask, this one is curious, considering, scrutinizing.
Reyce does not become aware of that stare immediately, too wrapped up in his lunch to pay much attention to the goings on of a quiet table next to him. Yet some awareness must register with him dimly, for he slows down in his chewing and turns his look to meet Laelle's. A quick flick takes in the different aspects of her expression, then returns to her eyes. "Yeah?" he demands simply, lazily.
Laelle's head tips back slightly, her chin lifting so that her regard has an almost lofty angle for a moment. It matches the faint curl in the corner of her lips. But then, as if that motion and that hint of a smile were utterly unconnected to whatever thought got her staring in the first place, her chin lowers again and her eyes narrow further. "Why are you here, Benden?" she asks, reverting to the first name she'd known him by. There is a sense that this question might not refer to the this particular moment.
There are enough people who call him 'Benden' habitually that the reversion to that name doesn't throw Reyce at all. Her question, coming apropos of nothing, has a bit more effect, but even so it's just a blink before he picks up the program with a puff of breath blown loudly out his cheeks. "Got sent," he answers. There's enough of a pause here for him to raise his brows at her, but then he returns to his food, eyeing the pinked sandwich with narrow consideration.
Laelle lifts the pencil to hold it in both teeth and fingers while she continues to watch him. It puts a throaty sound to her words. "And you agreed?" Her brow arches upward, part skeptical, part amused.
Reyce opts for the sandwich despite its dubious appearance, but he has to pick it up carefully lest the soggy bread melt off on his fingers. Already busy with his first mouthful, he doesn't answer her immediately, but the slightly dark, very flat look he sends her foreshadows his answer well enough. "Got /sent/," he repeats, "not asked." He pronounces the last word with a kind of hissing delicacy, disdain for the word and its implications.
She makes a face at his disgusting soggy mess of a lunch, but surely the burn of Reyce's dark stare is enough to make the sandwich's impact pale in comparison. But for his answer, Laelle just lifts her brow again. "You're more compliant than I'd guessed," she tells him. That brow has taken an amused look and her eyes flash. The smile she graces him with promises to leave the rest of his personal history in the past, but it is a strangely fearless smile nonetheless.
Reyce hoods his eyes at the sight of her fearless smile, his mouth turning aside in a wry twist. "Yeah," he agrees, but his tone is dark and the word drawn down into cynicism. His sandwich may make her grimace, but it doesn't bother him at all, and he punctuates his agreement with a snap of lunch meat, lettuce, and fruit-pinked white bread.
"What about now?" Laelle asks. "If you were -asked-," mimicking that hiss of his pronunciation. "Would you leave the Caucus? Go do... whatever it is that you... do?" That thought turn the last work into a breath of laugh and renews her smile so that it hangs on her open lips. Her eyes flick over him and end up on the sandwich again. And that's enough to kill the grin. "Ok, I can't watch anymore." Whether or not that gets him off the hook for her questions, she drops her eyes to her book to avoid the sight of him eating floppy soggy bread.
Reyce's wry twist curls up into faintly amused smirk when she turns away from his sandwich, for it takes him no time at all to connect her sudden disgust with his sandwich. "Don't be stupid," he advises drily, his tone stripped clean of even that small amusement which registers in his face. Giving her no time to consider either the advice or the sandwich, he takes another bite and shoves it off to the side of his mouth so he can answer the rest of her statement. "I'm asked to leave, I leave." He shrugs.
"I know you're not that obedient," Laelle says, lifting a flat-fingered hand to help shield her view. How she thinks she knows is, of course, open to speculation. "Anyway, not asked to leave. If whomever sent you asked if you wanted to attend Caucus, would you say yes or would leave? If you had a choice," her hand sinks a bit then, her dark-rimmed eyes seeking his face despite the dangers of that sandwich. "What would you do?"
Reyce keeps his dangerous sandwich at the ready, the disgust it gives her apparently dismissed from his thoughts as soon as he got out that piece of dry advice. He cannot take another bite of it as yet, though, because he's working through the last one slow, and watching her the while; though he seems to have no reservations about talking with food in his mouth, he's holding off for the moment. When he finally swallows it down, he does it so quickly that it hardly gives ample warning of an answer to come. "Pick to stay," he answers, his eyes immediately going narrow on the last word.
Laelle's expression is half blocked by that protective hand, but her eyes are on him, watchful as ever, dark and thinking. Her hand starts to lower and then she uses it to tuck her already neat hair back. "Alright." Her attention lingers for a moment, watching his narrowed eyes. And then apparently she intends to to go back to work. She brings her pencil to the book but the point never touches the page and just follows along already written words.
Reyce sends her off with not just narrowed eyes, but a snarl that tips up when she turns away. The snarl doesn't last long, as stuffing the last piece of the sandwich into his mouth interrupts it, but his narrowed eyes continue to track her in silence even after he turns back to his plate.
Laelle's pencil makes a few quick, decisive strokes in her notes, more symbol than words and punctuated with a tap. Then she's packing up. Book upon book, pencil tucked in her hand and it's all stuffed into her bag. She takes up the tea and the apple, precariously balanced in one hand while the other hand takes her used plate. She gets up from her cleared table and swings a step towards Reyce. Leaning down near the man who just snarled so nicely at her, she sets the place in front of him. "Take care of this for me?" she asks, sweet and polite though her smile is decidedly sly, almost playful.
Reyce meets sly and playful with flat and unmoved, reaching out to take the plate and slide it the rest of the way towards himself. It's answer enough that he lifts his own plate and slides hers under it, stacking them for eventual clean up, but he's generous enough to add a "Sure" in his plain, quiet voice. Then he just watches her, waiting to see if there's anything else before he goes back to his meal.
"Thanks," is all Laelle has for him, she's upright again, not lingering near either Reyce or his disgusting lunch. Then she's off with only the crunch of another bite of apple to bid farewell.
It's lunchtime and the commons are busy with a variety of activities. Some students bustle from classes, eager to dump their books and run off to eat. Others are munching on tidbits of their meals while they hurry off to study. Others still are settling in with a bit of food to do their studying amid the general chaos. It's probably no surprise that Laelle is one of that last group. She has an apple and a cup of tea and a plate that's already been picked over. She's claimed a table this time, with room for her books. Those prime seats by the fire are already occupied. The slim woman crunches a bite off her apple and lets out a heavy sigh as she bends lower over her book and scribbles something on her notepad.
It's probably no surprise that Reyce is one of that last group, as well. At least as far as the food goes: he has no books to hand, only his lunch of cold foods, wisely chosen to survive the trip across the bowl. Even so, he has opted for two plates - one to carry the food, the other to keep windblown ice from striking it - and as soon as he enters the commons, his first task is to find a table so he can set the things down while he goes to get klah. Since the most convenient seats are taken, he goes for the next most handy, a table right next to Laelle's. He lingers there only a moment, stripping off his heavy overcoat so he doesn't go from a freeze to a boil, and then he takes off to get a drink from the hearth area.
Despite the food and the book, it's the sigh that really says the most about Laelle's current state of mind. Frustrated perhaps, or bored. Either way, easily distracted. She'd probably have to be blind to miss the tall man shucking off a jacket so close to her, nevermind the chill of cold that might still cling or the distinct scene ot outdoors that certainly lingers on him. She looks up to watch Reyce, pausing in the middle of chewing, her pencil still pressed to the paper, to let her eyes follow as he removes the overcoat and heads towards the hearth.
Reyce brings his fair share of both cold and scent, the outdoors mingled with the sweet smell of something that's still hiding under that second plate. Moments later, he adds to that the warmth of fresh klah, carried right up under his nose as he takes a drink while still walking with it. He meets Laelle's eye over the rim of his mug, catching her glance and registering it, but he does nothing about it. Another glance takes in the work laid out on the table before her, and then he just drops into his own seat next door, careful not to slosh the klah as he does.
Laelle just keeps watching like a disembodied pair of eyes. She watches him manage to drink and walk at the same time, stares plainly at him when he looks at her and at her table, watches when he settles into his nearby seat. She breaths in deeply, lips closed and returns her attention to her book. Her lashes may lower, lids all ash and darkness, but there is no flicker of eyes skimming across the page. Her pencil remains frozen and she only barely starts to resume chewing, a slow steady roll of the food in her mouth.
Reyce, even with his overcoat shed, still has his beaten leather jacket on under the mix, and this he keeps when he settles into the chair. They are, after all, not very close to the fire. He takes a moment to settle his jacket correctly, after the movement of the overcoat hauled it off to one side, and then digs into his food, lifting the top plate off with all the style of a chef revealing his master meal and none of the relish. It's not a meal to get excited about, really: a sandwich, and a collection of fruits whose juice leaks into the bread and stains it a dull pink. Reyce digs a fork out of his pocket and gets to work scraping the fruit away before they can do any more damage.
With her mouthful gone, Laelle lifts her head again and resumes watching Reyce. But it's different this time. Her lashes are narrowed, there's tension around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her head is cocked to one side. This is not her usual expression, that impassive mask, this one is curious, considering, scrutinizing.
Reyce does not become aware of that stare immediately, too wrapped up in his lunch to pay much attention to the goings on of a quiet table next to him. Yet some awareness must register with him dimly, for he slows down in his chewing and turns his look to meet Laelle's. A quick flick takes in the different aspects of her expression, then returns to her eyes. "Yeah?" he demands simply, lazily.
Laelle's head tips back slightly, her chin lifting so that her regard has an almost lofty angle for a moment. It matches the faint curl in the corner of her lips. But then, as if that motion and that hint of a smile were utterly unconnected to whatever thought got her staring in the first place, her chin lowers again and her eyes narrow further. "Why are you here, Benden?" she asks, reverting to the first name she'd known him by. There is a sense that this question might not refer to the this particular moment.
There are enough people who call him 'Benden' habitually that the reversion to that name doesn't throw Reyce at all. Her question, coming apropos of nothing, has a bit more effect, but even so it's just a blink before he picks up the program with a puff of breath blown loudly out his cheeks. "Got sent," he answers. There's enough of a pause here for him to raise his brows at her, but then he returns to his food, eyeing the pinked sandwich with narrow consideration.
Laelle lifts the pencil to hold it in both teeth and fingers while she continues to watch him. It puts a throaty sound to her words. "And you agreed?" Her brow arches upward, part skeptical, part amused.
Reyce opts for the sandwich despite its dubious appearance, but he has to pick it up carefully lest the soggy bread melt off on his fingers. Already busy with his first mouthful, he doesn't answer her immediately, but the slightly dark, very flat look he sends her foreshadows his answer well enough. "Got /sent/," he repeats, "not asked." He pronounces the last word with a kind of hissing delicacy, disdain for the word and its implications.
She makes a face at his disgusting soggy mess of a lunch, but surely the burn of Reyce's dark stare is enough to make the sandwich's impact pale in comparison. But for his answer, Laelle just lifts her brow again. "You're more compliant than I'd guessed," she tells him. That brow has taken an amused look and her eyes flash. The smile she graces him with promises to leave the rest of his personal history in the past, but it is a strangely fearless smile nonetheless.
Reyce hoods his eyes at the sight of her fearless smile, his mouth turning aside in a wry twist. "Yeah," he agrees, but his tone is dark and the word drawn down into cynicism. His sandwich may make her grimace, but it doesn't bother him at all, and he punctuates his agreement with a snap of lunch meat, lettuce, and fruit-pinked white bread.
"What about now?" Laelle asks. "If you were -asked-," mimicking that hiss of his pronunciation. "Would you leave the Caucus? Go do... whatever it is that you... do?" That thought turn the last work into a breath of laugh and renews her smile so that it hangs on her open lips. Her eyes flick over him and end up on the sandwich again. And that's enough to kill the grin. "Ok, I can't watch anymore." Whether or not that gets him off the hook for her questions, she drops her eyes to her book to avoid the sight of him eating floppy soggy bread.
Reyce's wry twist curls up into faintly amused smirk when she turns away from his sandwich, for it takes him no time at all to connect her sudden disgust with his sandwich. "Don't be stupid," he advises drily, his tone stripped clean of even that small amusement which registers in his face. Giving her no time to consider either the advice or the sandwich, he takes another bite and shoves it off to the side of his mouth so he can answer the rest of her statement. "I'm asked to leave, I leave." He shrugs.
"I know you're not that obedient," Laelle says, lifting a flat-fingered hand to help shield her view. How she thinks she knows is, of course, open to speculation. "Anyway, not asked to leave. If whomever sent you asked if you wanted to attend Caucus, would you say yes or would leave? If you had a choice," her hand sinks a bit then, her dark-rimmed eyes seeking his face despite the dangers of that sandwich. "What would you do?"
Reyce keeps his dangerous sandwich at the ready, the disgust it gives her apparently dismissed from his thoughts as soon as he got out that piece of dry advice. He cannot take another bite of it as yet, though, because he's working through the last one slow, and watching her the while; though he seems to have no reservations about talking with food in his mouth, he's holding off for the moment. When he finally swallows it down, he does it so quickly that it hardly gives ample warning of an answer to come. "Pick to stay," he answers, his eyes immediately going narrow on the last word.
Laelle's expression is half blocked by that protective hand, but her eyes are on him, watchful as ever, dark and thinking. Her hand starts to lower and then she uses it to tuck her already neat hair back. "Alright." Her attention lingers for a moment, watching his narrowed eyes. And then apparently she intends to to go back to work. She brings her pencil to the book but the point never touches the page and just follows along already written words.
Reyce sends her off with not just narrowed eyes, but a snarl that tips up when she turns away. The snarl doesn't last long, as stuffing the last piece of the sandwich into his mouth interrupts it, but his narrowed eyes continue to track her in silence even after he turns back to his plate.
Laelle's pencil makes a few quick, decisive strokes in her notes, more symbol than words and punctuated with a tap. Then she's packing up. Book upon book, pencil tucked in her hand and it's all stuffed into her bag. She takes up the tea and the apple, precariously balanced in one hand while the other hand takes her used plate. She gets up from her cleared table and swings a step towards Reyce. Leaning down near the man who just snarled so nicely at her, she sets the place in front of him. "Take care of this for me?" she asks, sweet and polite though her smile is decidedly sly, almost playful.
Reyce meets sly and playful with flat and unmoved, reaching out to take the plate and slide it the rest of the way towards himself. It's answer enough that he lifts his own plate and slides hers under it, stacking them for eventual clean up, but he's generous enough to add a "Sure" in his plain, quiet voice. Then he just watches her, waiting to see if there's anything else before he goes back to his meal.
"Thanks," is all Laelle has for him, she's upright again, not lingering near either Reyce or his disgusting lunch. Then she's off with only the crunch of another bite of apple to bid farewell.