Logs:Chin Up
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| RL Date: 13 January, 2009 |
| Who: Milani, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 9, Turn 18 (Interval 10) |
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| Records Room, High Reaches Weyr Books. Scrolls. Bound hides. Maps. If it's a record pertaining to the Weyr, it's likely to be in this roughly oval room with its floor-to-ceiling cherrywood shelves, its multitude of slots for scrolls, and its wide drawers for materials that shouldn't be rolled up or folded. A scribe is usually on duty at the tall desk up front with its good view of the room, and is able to help visitors find what they're looking for via the big bound index on its rotating stand. Past the desk, several tables stand in neat rows for note-taking, each stocked with glowbaskets, scrap hide, paper and pencils. Additional lighting is provided by a many-armed wrought-iron light fixture, its glows gleaming through luxurious glass containers in fluted shapes instead of baskets. To one side of the room, a gap between two sets of shelves outlines where another set once stood, now replaced by a tapestry-covered aperture. Peeking behind the tapestry reveals another cavern, this one likewise full of shelves, but occupied by only a few boxes of older records and a somewhat musty air of disuse. As well, two narrow but solid doors are locked when the room is unattended and a discreet staircase provides direct access from the Weyrleaders' weyrs. It is an autumn afternoon, 15:10 of day 27, month 9, turn 18 of Interval 10. It's been common lately to find Milani in the Records Room going over ledgers and re-checking figures. It's tithing season and all of her staff are busy inventorying, unpacking tithes, arranging things in Stores and the headwoman herself is no exception. She's often in her office doing similar work late into the night, but today she's using the materials that are commonly stored here in Records where there's more shelving space. The click of her abacus is a distinctive sound, not too loud, but omni-present in the otherwise still quality of the room, though there are others here working on copying or filing. How long Satiet's been standing at in the shadows of the stairwell is not apparent from the casual stance she's adopted. One bony shoulder rests against the cold stone, protected by a loose-knit rose shawl, and in her hands is a large mug of something steaming (and clearly not for children given the aromas wafting out of it). Perhaps she's stood there for an hour. For five minutes. But for now, she's content to watch the Headwoman in silence in those shadows, observing the way the abacus shifts, then clicks, and Milani's head bent over figures. Every so often, the mug rises for a small sip. Click-click-click. Milani's lips purse and she leans back in her chair, frowning down at the page. "Giorda, either you need to go back to Harper class or ..." she trails off, sighs softly and flips that particular ledger closed, reaches for the next one. There's a sheet beside her with list of figures, looks like she's keeping track of mistakes and a list of page numbers of where to find them. There's a quiet thud as that ledger hits the tabletop and Milani looks down at the leather cover for a moment, runs her fingers over the embossed dates in it, almost like she's wondering at the craftmanship that went into it. Small movements pace the time in which Satiet continues to observe Milani; the tilt of her head against the wall, so her glossy curls might sweep against the stone wall, then tipped the other way in an absent study of Milani's fingers tracing the embossed lettering. She could stand there indefinitely, could venture out into the light. Or perhaps, remain in the shadows, with only the quietest tells of her presence: the shuffling of house slippers against the stone stairs, the rustle of fabric with each of her minute shifts. Then, there's the cough, soft, muffled, decidedly forced, for the goldrider's pale eyes lift quickly to seek the Headwoman's reaction, if any. The shuffle catches Milani's ears first, the cough turns her head and blue-green eyes meet paler blue. "Weyrwoman," the headwoman says promptly and pushes her chair back, rising respectfully. "Is there anything I can help you with today? I was just going over some of the tithe ledgers," a gesture to said as if it weren't perfectly obvious what she was doing. A lifted hand catches hair between the comb of her fingers, and there they remain, idly combing the ends, twisting thinner locks about her index finger. And then a simple exhalation, a sigh, though it's good humored enough, coupled as it is with the slightest upward crook to her lips. Caught. It leads to a step forward, down that last step into the records room from the council chambers, and then another to draw closer to where Milani now stands. "One of the perks of position is self-prescribed rest days," says Satiet in lieu of greeting, though she lifts her mug. "I need no assistance, Headwoman. How fares your various battles?" "Oh! Well then, no business," Milani says with a laugh, something in her posture easing a little. "Good drink?" she inquires in far less formal a manner, rests a hand against the back of her chair, where fingers promptly fiddle with a loose thread in the upholstery. That last question though, draws out a puffed breath. "Well. Some days, I swear, one of the assistants has forgotten simple arithmetic. I'm going to have to take her off of ledger duty and put her to some other tasks, let Alieva handle more of the records-keeping. Otherwise, it's just a busy time, you know how it goes. But things seem to be coming in well. I haven't noticed any particular ... lack this turn. Though some of the holds are still sending some funny things. At least we don't have three thousand /beads/ again." A blessing? And Milani has a bright smile for that. Her fingers drum though along the chair's back, lips pressing together like she's chewing on words that haven't come out yet. A slender brow hitches up, askance. Is that all of the Headwoman's battles today? But Satiet says nothing of her drink, merely sparing a slight smile over its rim before she takes another sip. Taking interest, or feigning at best, the goldrider leans forward to inspect Milani's work, the most cursory of glances scanning the inventories with its organized lists and numbers. "And how old is Alieva?" That brow raised merely fixes Milani's smile in place, fingers drumming all the more. "She's eighteen," the headwoman answers simply. "One of the youngest assistants," Milani continues, looks down in the same direction as Satiet does. "Some people are just better with numbers than other people. Giorda's really good at organizing though. So it's just you know, balancing things." Millie's free hand comes up, tugs at the short curls at the base of her neck. "You're well today though? Enjoying the downtime?" "Well enough," is Satiet's ready, unthinking response, and as Milani looks down, the goldrider looks up. "I'd like a weekly report on Alieva's progress as your assistant, as well as her general demeanor and how she comports herself." Both hands claim the sides of her mug to draw close to her chest, the shawl slipping slightly off her left shoulder with the sudden movement. "And-," amused, the thin smile curves all the more deeply, "Have both Alieva and Giorda sit in on some of the harpers' remedial arithmetic classes." But pretense of other work, or interest in the youngest assistant slips off in favor of an abrupt, "And the Weyrleader?" "Glad to hear it," Milani replies forthrightly and bobs her head in answer to the request. "Certainly, I'll add that into the list," and she bends to pick up her pencil, pulls another smaller sheet of paper from beneath other things, writes down the reminder and chuckles a little about the remedial lessons. "Hopefully they won't get too --" but what she meant to say there is broken off and the younger woman's eyes lift. "I suppose it's mostly a truce, ma'am," she says slowly, thoughtfully. "I'd appreciate your advice actually. I have no idea how to deal with him anymore. I think I screwed up." 'Go on, how -did- you screw up?' says the slight drop of her chin and the lift of her brows. Satiet then leans her hip against the table, half-resting on the edge, with one leg hitched up so it dangles. Milani scrabbles her hand through her hair and takes a deep breath, looks around then fusses more with that loose thread. "I tried to draw a line with him. It didn't work. And now I'm not sure if I should back down or not. But I kind of hate to see the Snowasis the way it is. I mean, Tiriana's taken care of most of the things that you know, fell by the wayside. But ... it's not the same." Likely the image of Milani drawing a line with N'thei is what's causing the laugh lines to trace across Satiet's porcelain features, a tepid smile curling her mouth. It's with this amusement that the woman's low-pitched alto, filled with humor, remarks, "And you believe I have a better grasp of my Weyrleader?" Head tilted, arm reached back to brace her weight, she then cocks a mockingly quizzical brow at the Headwoman. "Why would you think such a thing?" That floors Milani, it does. It's evident in the brief fish-mouthing and then the flush in her cheeks as she looks down at the floor. "Because ... because ... you're the Weyrwoman and -- and, you're you, she flusters out." Another sip obscures Satiet's face with the wide circle of the mug, but when it falls back to her lap, steadfast amusement clings to the thin-pressed smile and crinkles about her eyes. "I doubt either means very much to our Weyrleader, because he's himself." Just as Milani's appraisal of Satiet as 'you're you.' "And I'm not sure I'd have it any other way. A boar of a Weyrleader, self-interested and fixated. Always right, or so he thinks. You break that, you break the man. But," allowance fills the sudden low-pitch of her alto, "The lower caverns are my domain and Tiriana, now, the interloper. I'd appreciate an appraisal of Alieva by morning. Iovniath's due to rise soon." A beat. "Teonath too." Milani's lips press together again and she nods. "That was precisely the point I was trying to make," she says steadily, recovering from that moment. "Your domain. The juniors'. Mine, as I report to you." And there's a little lift of her chin as she says that last. "I'll have to figure out a way to try to make things ... better, somehow. But I won't bow down and kiss his holier-than- thou boots." Breath in, breath out. And maybe irony in that. "You'll have that right on time, ma'am," about the appraisal. "And we'll make sure we're ready to handle two gold flights and I'll send a crew to clean out the Barracks in preparation for candidates." "Avoid him. Speak to him through me. That is," Satiet inserts with a sly glitter in her pale eyes, "One of the dubious perks of my job." There's another silent beat, just long enough to watch the Headwoman steady herself and distract herself with preparations for the future. "Have I missed all the gathers for the season? I'm told, beyond just your penchant for organization, that you'd be the one to know of any forthcoming occasions." Satiet's solution earns another lip-press, but Milani's not going to argue. "I'll do that, ma'am. Though, the truth is, I miss ... how he used to be. If that makes any sort of sense." Beat. "Before he was Weyrleader." Her arms fold across her chest now and there's sincerity in her face. "He wasn't so bad to talk to then." Of course that could also have more to do with Milani herself. The younger woman's smile re-appears, a little sheepish and she ducks her head. "It's a little bit of a lull right now, but next seven Crom's Harvest Gather kicks off. It's always a nice one to go to. And the apple gathering and that celebration will be at Nabol soon. And they're naming a new ship at the Seacraft seven after next." The mention of Crom presses Satiet's lips down thinner, nigh on disappearing into her mouth, caught and kept in place by her teeth. "Perhaps I'll go to Nabol's apple festival." Which seems a likely end to this conversation as the slight woman slides off her hip-perch on the table and makes a few steps towards the stairs. Half-way there, her chin turns over her shoulder, to glance back at Milani and her work. It's just long enough of a pause for her to share, pensively, "The burdens of Weyrleadership," before her steps resume to wherever else she plans to go. Belatedly, Milani realizes that misstep and bites down on her lip, probably kicking herself mentally. "Nabol's lovely this time of turn," is what she musters though and watches the Weyrwoman go, clears her throat and incongruously adds: "Chin up, ma'am," the she was the one just asking for advice. "My chin," calls Satiet backwards though she doesn't stop, "Is always up." Pensivity shook off, she climbs those stairs to disappear. Milani drops into her chair and lets her breath out all once as Satiet vanishes up above. "Faranth," the young headwoman mutters under her breath and presses the fingers of her hands to both temples. "Sometimes, I swear, this whole thing will drive me off my rocker." Her chin sets though a moment later and she grabs her pencil, finishes that last line of correction, then puts the ledgers away and strides off with her notes to go take care of business, steps brisk and purposeful. |
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