Logs:C'est La Vie
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| RL Date: 29 September, 2008 |
| Who: C'mryn, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 11, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: B'rakis/Mentions |
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| The hour is growing later, though not quite late-late yet and while the living caverns might bustle with the latter end of dinner, the nighthearth has yet to see spillage from the evening meal. That is, except Satiet's sole figure finding some respite from the day's hubbub by taking a quieter meal in this tiny bubble cavern. Her feet are bare, a throw is tossed over her bent knees, and with one hand bracing a book against her legs the other juggles both a bowl and a spoon, somehow; at least she's eating a spoonful every few pages or so. And then C'mryn walks in. He's in the process of unfastening his jacket, and his scarf is still wrapped around his neck. There's a quick stop for a mug of klah before he takes a quick glance around. And spots Satiet. An eyebrow arches, and he wanders ever so casually over. "Evening, Weyrwoman." That Satiet treats the nighthearth like it's her personal living room should be no surprise; it is Satiet after all. But somehow any air of entitlement is lacking in the startled look that flies upwards to find C'mryn, his jacket, his scarf, and the mug of klah that the bronzerider now holds. Keen eyes quickly cut to the arced brows and something in his look unsettles her, her lips twitching uncertain. In the end, she holds her ground, casual barefeet lifted to warm by the hearth's light and all and offers a brief, lackluster little smile that fails to spark any true warmth in her pale eyes. "C'mryn, right? The one with the weyrmate." As if he might be the only former Telgari with a long distance weyrmate. Nothing is said about bare feet, blankets, or books. As C'mryn hasn't yet sipped from his klah, he arches an eyebrow and offers her the mug. "Klah?" Nevermind she's got a bowl and spoon to juggle. "Former Weyrmate, actually. But yes." Without invitation he sinks into a nearby chair and makes himself comfortable. "Are the books at High Reaches more interesting than those elsewhere? You're the second person I have found reading in as many days." "Former?" Surprise dawns light to those pale eyes, the dark lashes lifting quickly to climb up the length of C'mryn's body to his face and those persistently-arced-brows. Amused, perhaps a little mocking, her "My, my," lapses into a momentary silence as she juggles book, bowl, and spoon once more so that the book is, while not closed at least pressed back and obscured by the bowl in her lap. And she eats, slowly, focused more on her food than the text with the bronzerider's sudden lingering company. Those eyes follow him as he sinks down and watches as he makes himself comfortable. "Perhaps the people are more interesting than those elsewhere, that we find books so interesting. Do you not enjoy reading, bronzerider?" "Yeah," says C'mryn of the 'former' weyrmate. He shrugs. "Been former for a while." He either conveniently misses, or completely ignores, the way she looks at him, preferring to inspect his fingernails instead. Fascinating. With a bit of a smirk, he glances over and shrugs his shoulder. "I read when I must. Depends on what it is I am reading, and why. A bit of history now and again, when it appeals to me." A contemplative little furrow of his eyebrows, and he wonders, "Perhaps it is simply a product of the Interval resuming. Afterall, while I was at Telgar, we were far too busy preparing for Threadfall to do much of anything else." There's a tilt of Satiet's head, the weyrwoman's raven curls spilling out of her artfully messy bun to fall over one shoulder. Due consideration is granted C'mryn's theories of leisure and Intervals, then her chin drops to study the tops of her text. "Does it bother you?" is the simple question she asks, no elaboration forthcoming even after a telltale purse of her lips and lift of her eyes to the armchair across the way. His eyes remain towards the center of the room, ignoring hair and other such interesting things. C'mryn smirks. "Which part?" he asks. "The Interval, the reading, or no longer living at Telgar?" Neither topic seems to bother him, at least outwardly, and he gives a little shrug of his shoulders before raising his mug to sip. "Ah," exhales the weyrwoman. Her little toes wiggle with the heat and then curl, inching under the cover of her blanket and thus respectability, or the thin guise of it, is refound. "Isn't that up to you? The interpretation of my question?" Is it a test? A test that Satiet's all too willing to elaborate on, even with that touch of wry reluctance. "The amount of time not spent preparing for Thread." Then, "And your weyrmate." That perpetually raised eyebrow is raised again as C'mryn turns to regard the Weyrwoman once again. There's the briefest of glances for that black lock of hair now resting on her shoulder, but then it's her eyes that are met. The corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile, and he offers a one-shouldered shrug. The guise of indifference. "No, it does not," he answers simply. "At first it was awkward, much like it is awkward after graduating from Weyrlinghood and suddenly finding yourself with more free time than you know what to do with. What is there to do, now that Thread is gone from our lifetime?" There's a longer silence before he answers her second question, and his feigned indifference fades. "My Weyrmate," he begins before giving a sigh. "It bothers me how it ended, nothing more. It would have happened, regardless." While he speaks of riding in an Interval, her pale eyes fix intently onto his features, watching reactions and the way he talks. But it's on the last half that Satiet latches, rather than the topic of riding in an Interval. "Her or you? The fundamental, inevitability?" Again, a careful purse of his lips as C'mryn considers the question. He raises his mug to his lips, but does not yet take another sip. "I suppose I ended it. Technicalities. I am the one that said it would not work. And yes. It was inevitable." Another pause, and his hand momentarily tightens around the clay cup. "Even with Between, distance would have ruined it. In her own words, she loved just a bit too much. It was easier, for me, to simply be done with the relationship than to wait for her to find someone else." Measured pauses after he speaks draws Satiet's gaze away from C'mryn's face to the hearth with its crackling flames, to the book's top, to the steam curling from her chowder. Then, inevitably, her pale eyes return to pin upon the once Telgari bronzerider, lips pursed and the lines of her face wavering in some indecision. "I find it amusing that I've spoken so little of my own weyrmate and since the arrival of you and yours to my Weyr, I've spoken of it twice. Once with you. Once with Tiriana." In her light eyes, the fires of the hearth dance, her gaze drifting away from C'mryn. "We're still friends, him and I. He still makes me laugh in a way only family can. With him," she tips her face away, so she's looking to the far wall away from C'mryn, "I can be myself. And yet it still didn't work out. Such is life, I imagine." C'mryn just smirks. "Amusing," he agrees, but doesn't say much more on the subject. He takes a lengthy sip of his klah, it apparently being cool enough not to burn his tongue, and shrugs again. He's watching Satiet now, though, from the corner of his eye and with feigned half-interest. His fingers tap on the mug, and he wonders, "Was he your first love?" without any hint of remorse for the potential rudeness such a question might have. "She was mine. I believe I will always love her, in some way." "No," is the easy answer, the quick one that requires no thought. Satiet's slender legs lowers, straightening to reach towards the far end of the couch. Her bare toes wriggle, her back arches and she sinks down for a brief moment. Fluidity of motion brings her up and she stands, quick to catch her blanket before it falls, and continuing her juggle of bowl and book so neither creates a mess on the ground. "But I know with B'rakis, I'll always have a best friend. Good night, C'mryn. I'm sorry for your situation; being here, weyrmateless." C'mryn's eyes follow her movement, no longer only half interested. It's a pensive, somber sort of expression, however, and he simply shrugs in reply. "Don't be," he tells her. "As you said, such is life." Her exit gets a little bob of his head, but he forgoes politeness and does not rise to see her out. Lithe steps, silent for her bare feet, carry Satiet out towards the inner caverns, where presumably she'll find her way home. His lack of politeness, the change in his demeanor -- it all doesn't go unnoticed in the flash of keen-cut blue flames, but it does go uncommented on. Before she departs, there's a glance passed over her shoulder for the young man, a slip of what could potentially be a smile flashed, before she's gone. |
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