Assignment #1
I know everybody else has written a vignette of their past, but I got the chance to RP my past scene, and I'm loving the result.
Who: Medina and Sefton.
What: Heated debate!
When: Early in Turn 200 -- which is to say, about 2 turns before the present day.
Where: Southern Boll Hold, Lord Mitali's library.
Background:
Medina has been posted to Southern Boll. There she has met Sefton, who she knows only as "Sef". His looks identify him as Boll Blood, but she wrongly assumes that he is some distant and unimportant relative. This obviously made her arrival at Caucus a fairly interesting experience. She and her ranking friend have got into the habit of engaging in repeated and heated debates on various subjects. As will become apparent, the two are in the habit of exchanging viewpoints, and arguing passionately for that in which they do not believe even a little.
The library at Southern Boll: sunlight streaming in through unshuttered windows, setting dust motes to dancing in the wake of the man who is striding back and forth as he speaks. He is tall, broad-shouldered, his black curls falling into his eyes -- clad in blue and brown, he cuts a figure most Caucus students would fail to recognise. "Be reasonable, woman," he's drawling at his companion, tone calculated to infuriate. "Women approach problems different. Do you say there is not merit in bringing as many different solutions to the table as possible?"
"Different/ly/" Medina corrects. She stands still, watching the prowling man. Unnecessarily smooths the neat skirt she wears, deep forest green over a white blouse. The spots of colour have re-appeared on her cheeks, high and red. "Women think in exactly the same way as men. Men have many different ways of solving problems, how are women any different? The number of solutions 'brought to the table'" and here she sneers the quote, "Are no different, whether men or women are at the table. No, they would be less, if women were at 'the table'.
"They would be /fewer/," Sefton corrects her, shooting her a cheshire grin over one shoulder, "if women were at the table." He pivots on his heel, eyes on the window as he makes his way in that direction. "Women take a more subtle approach. They are used to lacking the power men wield, so they look for ways to achieve their ends will less exertion." He comes to a half at the window, lifting one knee to rest it against the window seat, staring out.
Medina stamps her foot at his correction. "Women's subtlety! If a woman's solutions /work/, then why are they not the Lord Holders? Why do they lack power? Ineffectual, rather, are these means to an end." Her eyes follow Sef to the window, and she grits her teeth as he stares out the window. She looks as if she starts to say something, then thinks better of it.
"A woman's solutions do not require the obvious wielding of power," Sefton drawls in response, as though stating the bleedingly obvious. "Do you say Lady Serri has no power here at Boll, simply because it is her husband who sits on the Conclave? Imperceptive, if you do. Women pursue their power via other means -- but I stray from the point. In a world full of politics, subtle solutions have their place."
"So who cares what the woman's solutions are? She cannot have them heard while she has no power. And that is the way of the world, and the way it's been since the First Egg. Worse, a woman's 'power' is likely to undermine the structure of the crafts, creating chaos... and... anarchy." Medina shifts uncomfortably on the spot. "And would you at least /look/ at me!"
Sefton tilts his head flightly to one side to indicate he is listening, and at her final admonition, he twists to look at her over his shoulder -- that smile of his stretches from ear to ear, lazily self assured. "Why should I, if you have so little to say?" he asks, a trace of laughter running through his voice. "But I do look, and I listen, because I am interested to hear what you have to tell me. There is something in that, no?"
The colour has gone even higher on her cheeks. She takes an urgent step forward, then visibly restrains herself. Takes a deep breath, appearing, at last, to consider his words. When she speaks, it is with a more measured tone. "Women's solutions may occasionally work," she allows. "However, the direct approach is usually the best, and men are the only ones able to do that. Hence women should not be in the Crafts. There are other good reasons a woman's judgement is defective, as well. Afterall, a keen mind is not the only requirement for a good crafter." she raises one eyebrow, stares him in the eye. Her arms cross over her chest.
Sefton listens with an air of polite attention, tilting his head once more. "Try the indirect approach, Medina. Come and whisper your words in my ear, practice for the future." He intends to put her off, dark eyes resting squarely on her face, grin sly. "A keen mind is not the only requirement, you are right. A delicate touch, perhaps, for a healer, or a weaver. Is a woman so unsuited to that? A perceptive ear. A woman cannot make a harper?"
Medina stares, uncertain. Leans back, watches him, suddenly wary as a cat. Can't hold his gaze, now watching instead his grin, a grin suggesting exactly nothing the words ---might've --suggested. Indecision wars in her face, then clears. Her shoulders come up straighter, but she is still not looking at Sef, rather, in his general direction. "A woman could indeed make one of these professions, and even give it credit. If--" She pauses dramatically, nods on her emphasis, "she could dedicate herself to the craft. But she cannot. She has responsibilities. She must share herself, between her family, her hold, her husband and children. She can only part of the time use the skills she has been training for, for many painful years." She grimaces briefly at this, then continues. "She wastes that training, and wastes the precious time of the Masters." She smiles confidently at her own argument. She has not looked at the reaction to it in her opponent's face.
Sefton takes advantage of Medina's averted gaze to study her features -- the colour in her cheeks draws something related to a smirk from him as he turns back to look out the window once more, gaze fixed on something outside. "Not all of us are made for marriage," he muses. "I've been ducking it for turns now with great success. So have my brothers. Some women are ill-suited to it by temprement, or are simply superfluous; their fathers have other daughters to marry off, and no need to pair off every child. Or do you say that a woman is incomplete without a man?"
Medina snorts. "Men may be able to avoid marriage. They have power in their own right. But women... must make use of their husband's power. 'Subtly'.'" She spits the word back at him. Some would call it turning back on her own argument. Others would say it was turning his own argument back on him. "And women have responsibilities that men do not. Towards the next generation. Afterall, a man has no need to care which side of the sheets his children are born on. He can merely deny them, or pay the woman off." Her face is a picture; a thundercloud on her forehead, her eyes flashing, her mouth pursed in distaste.
Sefton stills for a moment, eyes frozen on the horizon -- that moment is fleeting, however, and he swallows as he turns his gaze back to her, grin right back where it belongs. "Tell that to my Lord Carlin's children, outnumbered by his bastards," he murmurs, amusement readily visible. Her displeasure draws out an easier grin from him, a shake of his head bringing his curls further into his eyes. "Women's skills are rare, valuable. We give up most of them to childbearing, and perhaps that is as it should be. Nevertheless, some rare few are too skilled for that. We must put them where they will do us the most good."
Medina checks herself. Her eyes widen briefly, but she musters every bit of resolve in her slight frame, and her face is still when he turns to her, and her Healer's respect for privacy forbids the question burning inside her. "Or acknowledge them, but the woman who bore them is still... less than nothing." She pauses, considering the other part of his argument. The pause stretches out, then she speaks "Skills do not just occur in the wild. Even dragons are hatchlings first. What will you? Train every woman in every craft she shows some tendency towards, in the hope that some stroke of brilliance will show itself through? It is like treating every holder in Boll with featherfew when one has a fever. You may prevent more fevers... but the effect of that much tisane will be... unpleasant."
Sefton laughs, not bothering to conceal his mirth at her words. "Unpleasant," he agrees. "And where women are concerned, I prefer pleasant experiences." Another comment calculated to provoke, drawled slowly to allow her the full benefit of his not-so-subtle innuendo. "You are quite right, though. We cannot pull all the women from our beds in the hope that we shall have a ballad from them, or a pretty creation. You say that because a task is difficult, we should not attempt it? Women have too much to offer us as crafters to set them aside because they challenge us."
The red spots on her cheeks had been fading. Had. "You say that and expound a woman's rights to independence." Medina replies weakly. She steps back, putting more distance between them. Her hands smooth her skirt again, and again, while she is speechless. Finally, her thoughts find voice once more. "I say not that the task is difficult, I say it is impossible. Women have too many barriers to ever becoming even journeymen!" She cannot look at Sefton again, for some reason. She stares at his chest, then, when she realises where her gaze rests, looks away to a low bookshelf. The red on her cheeks refuses to fade.
"Women," Sefton drawls, "have a determination that men lack. They have been forced to acquire it. Women have an ability to focus on an outcome, and those who fix on one cannot be shaken. I shall demonstrate." He finally departs from the window, strolling over to stand before her. "Marry me, Medina. Give up your craft, and take on an excellent chance of becoming Lady Boll. You will bear children, you will enjoy a long, safe life, and you will never touch a patient again. What do you say?" Confidence in his tone -- arrogance, even. He is sure of her reply.
Despite herself, her heart and her breath quicken. She looks up into his face, his eyes partially obscured by that tumble of black curls. He is so close, she could... She steps away from him quickly. "I would prefer my freedom. I enjoy my direct power." Her tone is subdued. She looks at him a long while, her face inscrutiable, while a door closes. Without warning, she turns on her heel and strides out.
Sefton bears up under her scrutiny, grinning easily -- so confident, so willing to meet her eyes. No words, though. She's allowed to depart in silence, her partner in combat holding back a response until she's passing through the door. It's then that quiet laughter follows her, and Sefton turns to saunter back towards the window that's held him captive for much of the conversation,leaning against the broad window frame to look through it once more.
Who: Medina and Sefton.
What: Heated debate!
When: Early in Turn 200 -- which is to say, about 2 turns before the present day.
Where: Southern Boll Hold, Lord Mitali's library.
Background:
Medina has been posted to Southern Boll. There she has met Sefton, who she knows only as "Sef". His looks identify him as Boll Blood, but she wrongly assumes that he is some distant and unimportant relative. This obviously made her arrival at Caucus a fairly interesting experience. She and her ranking friend have got into the habit of engaging in repeated and heated debates on various subjects. As will become apparent, the two are in the habit of exchanging viewpoints, and arguing passionately for that in which they do not believe even a little.
The library at Southern Boll: sunlight streaming in through unshuttered windows, setting dust motes to dancing in the wake of the man who is striding back and forth as he speaks. He is tall, broad-shouldered, his black curls falling into his eyes -- clad in blue and brown, he cuts a figure most Caucus students would fail to recognise. "Be reasonable, woman," he's drawling at his companion, tone calculated to infuriate. "Women approach problems different. Do you say there is not merit in bringing as many different solutions to the table as possible?"
"Different/ly/" Medina corrects. She stands still, watching the prowling man. Unnecessarily smooths the neat skirt she wears, deep forest green over a white blouse. The spots of colour have re-appeared on her cheeks, high and red. "Women think in exactly the same way as men. Men have many different ways of solving problems, how are women any different? The number of solutions 'brought to the table'" and here she sneers the quote, "Are no different, whether men or women are at the table. No, they would be less, if women were at 'the table'.
"They would be /fewer/," Sefton corrects her, shooting her a cheshire grin over one shoulder, "if women were at the table." He pivots on his heel, eyes on the window as he makes his way in that direction. "Women take a more subtle approach. They are used to lacking the power men wield, so they look for ways to achieve their ends will less exertion." He comes to a half at the window, lifting one knee to rest it against the window seat, staring out.
Medina stamps her foot at his correction. "Women's subtlety! If a woman's solutions /work/, then why are they not the Lord Holders? Why do they lack power? Ineffectual, rather, are these means to an end." Her eyes follow Sef to the window, and she grits her teeth as he stares out the window. She looks as if she starts to say something, then thinks better of it.
"A woman's solutions do not require the obvious wielding of power," Sefton drawls in response, as though stating the bleedingly obvious. "Do you say Lady Serri has no power here at Boll, simply because it is her husband who sits on the Conclave? Imperceptive, if you do. Women pursue their power via other means -- but I stray from the point. In a world full of politics, subtle solutions have their place."
"So who cares what the woman's solutions are? She cannot have them heard while she has no power. And that is the way of the world, and the way it's been since the First Egg. Worse, a woman's 'power' is likely to undermine the structure of the crafts, creating chaos... and... anarchy." Medina shifts uncomfortably on the spot. "And would you at least /look/ at me!"
Sefton tilts his head flightly to one side to indicate he is listening, and at her final admonition, he twists to look at her over his shoulder -- that smile of his stretches from ear to ear, lazily self assured. "Why should I, if you have so little to say?" he asks, a trace of laughter running through his voice. "But I do look, and I listen, because I am interested to hear what you have to tell me. There is something in that, no?"
The colour has gone even higher on her cheeks. She takes an urgent step forward, then visibly restrains herself. Takes a deep breath, appearing, at last, to consider his words. When she speaks, it is with a more measured tone. "Women's solutions may occasionally work," she allows. "However, the direct approach is usually the best, and men are the only ones able to do that. Hence women should not be in the Crafts. There are other good reasons a woman's judgement is defective, as well. Afterall, a keen mind is not the only requirement for a good crafter." she raises one eyebrow, stares him in the eye. Her arms cross over her chest.
Sefton listens with an air of polite attention, tilting his head once more. "Try the indirect approach, Medina. Come and whisper your words in my ear, practice for the future." He intends to put her off, dark eyes resting squarely on her face, grin sly. "A keen mind is not the only requirement, you are right. A delicate touch, perhaps, for a healer, or a weaver. Is a woman so unsuited to that? A perceptive ear. A woman cannot make a harper?"
Medina stares, uncertain. Leans back, watches him, suddenly wary as a cat. Can't hold his gaze, now watching instead his grin, a grin suggesting exactly nothing the words ---might've --suggested. Indecision wars in her face, then clears. Her shoulders come up straighter, but she is still not looking at Sef, rather, in his general direction. "A woman could indeed make one of these professions, and even give it credit. If--" She pauses dramatically, nods on her emphasis, "she could dedicate herself to the craft. But she cannot. She has responsibilities. She must share herself, between her family, her hold, her husband and children. She can only part of the time use the skills she has been training for, for many painful years." She grimaces briefly at this, then continues. "She wastes that training, and wastes the precious time of the Masters." She smiles confidently at her own argument. She has not looked at the reaction to it in her opponent's face.
Sefton takes advantage of Medina's averted gaze to study her features -- the colour in her cheeks draws something related to a smirk from him as he turns back to look out the window once more, gaze fixed on something outside. "Not all of us are made for marriage," he muses. "I've been ducking it for turns now with great success. So have my brothers. Some women are ill-suited to it by temprement, or are simply superfluous; their fathers have other daughters to marry off, and no need to pair off every child. Or do you say that a woman is incomplete without a man?"
Medina snorts. "Men may be able to avoid marriage. They have power in their own right. But women... must make use of their husband's power. 'Subtly'.'" She spits the word back at him. Some would call it turning back on her own argument. Others would say it was turning his own argument back on him. "And women have responsibilities that men do not. Towards the next generation. Afterall, a man has no need to care which side of the sheets his children are born on. He can merely deny them, or pay the woman off." Her face is a picture; a thundercloud on her forehead, her eyes flashing, her mouth pursed in distaste.
Sefton stills for a moment, eyes frozen on the horizon -- that moment is fleeting, however, and he swallows as he turns his gaze back to her, grin right back where it belongs. "Tell that to my Lord Carlin's children, outnumbered by his bastards," he murmurs, amusement readily visible. Her displeasure draws out an easier grin from him, a shake of his head bringing his curls further into his eyes. "Women's skills are rare, valuable. We give up most of them to childbearing, and perhaps that is as it should be. Nevertheless, some rare few are too skilled for that. We must put them where they will do us the most good."
Medina checks herself. Her eyes widen briefly, but she musters every bit of resolve in her slight frame, and her face is still when he turns to her, and her Healer's respect for privacy forbids the question burning inside her. "Or acknowledge them, but the woman who bore them is still... less than nothing." She pauses, considering the other part of his argument. The pause stretches out, then she speaks "Skills do not just occur in the wild. Even dragons are hatchlings first. What will you? Train every woman in every craft she shows some tendency towards, in the hope that some stroke of brilliance will show itself through? It is like treating every holder in Boll with featherfew when one has a fever. You may prevent more fevers... but the effect of that much tisane will be... unpleasant."
Sefton laughs, not bothering to conceal his mirth at her words. "Unpleasant," he agrees. "And where women are concerned, I prefer pleasant experiences." Another comment calculated to provoke, drawled slowly to allow her the full benefit of his not-so-subtle innuendo. "You are quite right, though. We cannot pull all the women from our beds in the hope that we shall have a ballad from them, or a pretty creation. You say that because a task is difficult, we should not attempt it? Women have too much to offer us as crafters to set them aside because they challenge us."
The red spots on her cheeks had been fading. Had. "You say that and expound a woman's rights to independence." Medina replies weakly. She steps back, putting more distance between them. Her hands smooth her skirt again, and again, while she is speechless. Finally, her thoughts find voice once more. "I say not that the task is difficult, I say it is impossible. Women have too many barriers to ever becoming even journeymen!" She cannot look at Sefton again, for some reason. She stares at his chest, then, when she realises where her gaze rests, looks away to a low bookshelf. The red on her cheeks refuses to fade.
"Women," Sefton drawls, "have a determination that men lack. They have been forced to acquire it. Women have an ability to focus on an outcome, and those who fix on one cannot be shaken. I shall demonstrate." He finally departs from the window, strolling over to stand before her. "Marry me, Medina. Give up your craft, and take on an excellent chance of becoming Lady Boll. You will bear children, you will enjoy a long, safe life, and you will never touch a patient again. What do you say?" Confidence in his tone -- arrogance, even. He is sure of her reply.
Despite herself, her heart and her breath quicken. She looks up into his face, his eyes partially obscured by that tumble of black curls. He is so close, she could... She steps away from him quickly. "I would prefer my freedom. I enjoy my direct power." Her tone is subdued. She looks at him a long while, her face inscrutiable, while a door closes. Without warning, she turns on her heel and strides out.
Sefton bears up under her scrutiny, grinning easily -- so confident, so willing to meet her eyes. No words, though. She's allowed to depart in silence, her partner in combat holding back a response until she's passing through the door. It's then that quiet laughter follows her, and Sefton turns to saunter back towards the window that's held him captive for much of the conversation,leaning against the broad window frame to look through it once more.