Lieutenant Valesha Sienelis - Slice of Life
Quinn Reynolds
((Val'Bhaonn, Væron))
Valesha knew why she was here; a Romulan in a Starfleet uniform, a living symbol of the two cultures finding a single road. As she'd suspected, it was not a symbol many received well, and she was hard at work ignoring the glares that came her way. Republic the colony might be, but the Republic was but a spark against the inferno of history that the Empire had stoked, and old beliefs and hatreds died hard.
But there was something she hadn't expected, and that was a nostalgic twist of homecoming. She hadn't been around this many of her own people since the refugee camps on Vulcan, and it was tugging at her heart, pinching her throat at the most inopportune moments. Hearing her own language spoken in natural conversation, not by some leering Starfleet officer trying to impress her. Seeing children playing games and singing traditional rhymes in the streets. The familiar cut and styling of clothes, the music drifting out of open windows, a rhythm of life once her own and now almost entirely absent.
Johns: What in the name of culinary is lehe'jhme tart? It sounds delicious and I am, surprisingly, starving.
Sienelis: Didn't you eat on the shuttle down?
Johns: Breakfast barely began to scrape the requirements of my daily calorie intake. ::His growing beard bristled as his grin widened, hazel eyes focused on his future wife.:: A man dances on his stomach, or so the saying goes.
Sienelis: Then no wonder you're good. ::She cocked a dark eyebrow in his direction.:: Yours is never empty.
If he had a reply — which knowing Chris, he surely did and of the cheekiest variety possible — it was lost when the market came into view. Thriving and filled with people, vendors lined the wide street on either side, each stall packed with different wares. Fruit, vegetables and freshly-prepared offerings in rainbows of colour, street foods piping hot and ready to eat, spicing the air with mouth-watering flavours.
Hand-crafted goods caught her eye. Ornaments, trinkets and clothing, and a stray thought hooked into her mind that she could choose a few things to take back. Something authentically Rihannsu, something of her people that didn't come from a replicator, and while it wasn't from home it was perhaps the closest she'd ever get.
She smiled to see Chris wide-eyed, his hazel gaze darting across the scene in wonder. The talking, laughing, singing throng of people, the banners and market stalls in vibrant shades of amber, green, red and gold, the ch'Rihan fig tree whose ancestors must have been imported long before Hobus, the scent of freshly baked aemarau turnovers (which smelled a little like coconut, now she thought about it), he was taking it all in.
Johns: Chur menya... ::The expression rolled off his Russian tongue with little effort.:: This is something else, Vee.
Sienelis: Yeah.
She said it softly, caught in a riptide of memory, interrupted when a whirlwind of energy careened into them. The young girl bounced off Valesha and into Chris, a gap-toothed apology barely made before the young girl was off again. She wore her hair long, and it swung about her shoulders as she barrelled toward a waiting group of children, chaos and mischief waiting to happen. It drew a grin out of the Romulan scientist, a flash of her past and potential future all in one.
Johns: What's that smell? ::He paused, trying to find it on the air as he slipped his hands into his pockets.:: Like juniper berries and cocoa beans got lost in a blender.
It took her a moment to place it, her identification of the scent working in reverse to his, cocoa and juniper being the more unfamiliar. She placed it after a few moments, drifting over from a stall selling teas, hot drinks and slices of cake and biscuit to go with them. Was it too early for cake? Was it ever too early for cake? Valesha was fairly certain the Russian next to her would say no.
Sienelis: That's daedra. It's a kind of seed, we use it in desserts and treats. ::She gestured toward the stall.:: Or as a hot drink. Want to try some?
Johns: Response
Touching the back of her hand to his, Valesha smiled. As much as she'd been reluctant to come down to Væron, she was growing glad that she was here. Delight was aflame in Chris' eyes, and just as he'd shown her a slice of Russian life, she could do the same. It wasn't quite home, but it reminded her very much of certain places she'd visited and enjoyed. A chance to share something tangible and real, something wholesome and normal. So many people in the Federation, having only interacted with the Navy or unsavoury sorts, painted the whole of her society as self-interested manipulators. It was easy to forget or disregard that most Romulans lived quiet, everyday lives, just like most Federation citizens.
Sienelis: Tal K'shir was a lot like this, especially the Old Town and its markets. ::She glanced across at Chris and grinned.:: I used to visit to pick up supplies for home and always came back in a near coma from all the food I'd eaten.
Johns: Response
Threading their way through the crowds, Valesha wondered what would have happened if the Federation had refused the refugee caravan she'd been a part of. Would she have ended up staying in the Empire, or would she have found her new home in the Republic? She could imagine that she might have settled somewhere like this; an obscure colony, out of the way and beyond notice, discreetly pursuing her scientific interests. But that wasn't what had happened, and she had a very different future ahead of her.
Sienelis: I might pick up a few non-edible things. ::A sly smile continued to tug at the corners of her mouth.:: Maybe some fabric. There's this special outfit I have to make, after all...
Johns: Response