[Imbolc] Don't Be Suspicious

Something about Henley’s request, or how he makes it, is endearing. It’s because it reminds her of her nerds, that’s why. The nerds and geeks who come to her at SCA meets and conventions. There’s a certain subset of them that are always intimidated, and certain they’re going to be mocked. Because they have been mocked, relentlessly, for their niche interests, for not fitting cleanly even where they should find some acceptance. Wayland’s not exactly personable even on a good day, but the nerds give her reason to try a little harder. She’s been in their shoes, or close enough.

She downs the rest of her water and lobs the empty plastic bottle into a recycle bin, waving down a bartender for whatever bizarre Winter concoction is being served here and now. “I think I know the ones you mean,” she mentions of the crossbows. “They have sort of a stack of bolts on top, right? You pull a lever and it pulls back the string, loads the next bolt at the same time.” She cocks a hip, eyes drifting up and to the left as she visualizes the design. “Can’t have the most powerful draw because of that. But you get rate-of-fire in exchange.”

She shrugs, and then stretches her neck out. And that feels good enough that she has to stretch her chin up towards the ceiling, roll her neck. “If you want me to make something that’ll really, really shine, I need to know who it’s for. I need to take their measure, so it’ll fit to their hand, leap to their will.” For some reason that phrase is pleasant, and her lips draw back in an almost Cheshire-cat smirk, sharp teeth showing in a thin line, eerie white in the dark and shifting light of the party.

“D’you want it made all of Earth? Or were you aiming for Hedgespun?”

Wayland sways slightly to the beat of the music as she listens to the details Henley’s giving her, head bobbing now and then. The bartender is ready with her drink, so she procures it while the Nymph goes on, taking a sip and letting her mind wander and process. As often happens in her head, she begins to draft the project three-dimensionally, envisioning components, reshaping and twisting them and fitting it together as needs occur to her. For instance, Henley mentions that it’s for a kid, and a mortal. So this is probably not a fighting weapon, just a present for a hobby.

That it’s Ivory’s son catches her attention. The talk of Henley’s business, it’s stresses and successes, washes over her without making an impression as her pleasantly intoxicated mind instead wanders back to Ivory at Ostara. She enjoys that memory, and then the one following it, in her living room, the taste of olive oil and citrus and lamb on her lips and a new friendship decided. She’s remained on good terms with the Dragon, but she hasn’t met her son.

Her attention returns as the words once again begin to relate to the project, her three-dimensional drafting rising to the surface of her brain, replacing the thoughts of the past. “It helps me to clap my eyes on somebody, but I can make a great piece without it,” she answers the Nymph, before raising her drink to her lips again. “It might be a while, I’ve got other orders. But I’ll call you when I’ve got some concepts drafted, and we can talk.”

How has she been? That’s a good question. Wayland has to take a moment to stop and ask it of herself. It’s the sort of question anybody might ask, an innocuous bit of conversation. Nobody expects anyone to respond with depth, with meaning, with truth. But this is Imbloc. It’s not a night for platitudes, for polite fictions. This is a night of revelation and expression. And she is committed to it’s rituals. She’s seen what happens when Freeholders don’t do their part.

How has she been?

“I’ve been confused and frightened of the future!” She forces herself to blurt out, smile remaining on her face for a moment before slowly fading from her face, like someone pulled the plug and all her bright enthusiasm, her relaxed good humor, is draining out. It leaves her looking sort of empty, forlorn. She takes a hefty drink from her glass as if to restore herself. With a swallow of booze, she forces herself to go on, just for another moment, “I’ve been coping. I’m good at that.”

For a moment, the Maker looks down into her glass at the swirling Winter concoction, contemplative. She’s clearly thinking hard, a beat goes by and then her lips form a thin line, her grip on the glass grows tighter. For a moment she considers flinging it against a wall to shatter, but no, she’s not drunk enough to be that immature, might never be. Not at a party. Not outside a warehouse with her friends, breaking shit so they don’t break themselves.

“We’re bad at trusting each other.” She finally says to Henley. “I mean… not you and me,” though of course, she does also mean herself and him, “But the Freehold. We’re bad at trust. We’re bad at forgiveness. We’re bad at recovery and restitution. We’re bad at sharing information with each other. We’re bad at sharing! Look at how the Courts are at each other’s throats right now!”

Raising her glass to her lips, she adds “That’s going to really fucking hurt us when the war lands on our doorstep,” before draining her glass.

Not for the first time, Wayland thinks that this Freehold desperately needs a Newsletter. Or a Town Crier, or something. She hardly knows half of what Henley’s talking about, though at the mention of his Huntsman she immediately gets a sinking feeling in her gut. She smacks her glass back down on the bar and signals the tender for another.

“That’s good,” she tells Henley, almost biting out the words but trying to restrain herself. It is good, what he’s saying. “That’s good that you’ve been involved in so much… cooperation. But Henley…” She shakes her head, and turns her gaze on him, and for a moment there is such hurt and anger and despair howling in her eyes. “You’re missing the forest for the trees.”

The moment the barkeep slides her another glass, she snatches it up and stalks briskly away. She doesn’t look back. She never does.