Logs:Conjugal Visits
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| RL Date: 30 November, 2007 |
| Who: Satiet, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Holding Cell, Crom Hold |
| When: Day 22, Month 5, Turn 14 (Interval 10) |
| Holding Cell, Crom Hold(#19554RJ) This is a small square chamber located somewhere deep within Crom Hold, measuring a cot length long and wide. Sparse, it is not completely unfurnished, with a single cot lacking sheets and pillows and a small, unlit hearth. The door is locked, and a guard detail remains posted at all hours. By morning, things at Crom have both calmed down and heated up. No one's being punched, which is a good thing, but everyone's looking both grim and smug, which is a bad thing! Everyone except the three captives. N'thei's been given the chance to clean up a little, now sits on the edge of the really crummy caught with a cup of water and a scrap of towel to dab at his hurts, his sullen attention cast through the bars toward the guards that start to grow bored with their detail. Boredom shifts to attention in an instant, the arrival of someone of importance within Crom preceding that of Satiet's steps, his massive bulk obscuring sight of her for a moment. A few low words are said before the door's opening and Reaches' crimson clad Weyrwoman steps into the cell. Pale eyes skip, chin lifting superciliously as the state of the room sinks in, before the blue gaze lands coldly on N'thei. The guards, now roused from their boredom, require a harsh bark from their superior to fall back away from the bars, allowing the Weyrwoman and their jailbait some modicum of privacy. "Well-," she begins, adopting a timbre of false mirth. The guards snap-to but N'thei? N'thei continues to slouch and dab at his nose for a couple of extra seconds, roused only to a pause in his clean-up efforts when Satiet enters in all her glory. For the first time, his eyes fail to be properly worshipful, instead blearily apologetic. He puts the stained rag in the cup of water and holds it between both hands, starts to his feet with all the soreness of a fight and a night on a prison-cot. "Well?" When it becomes clear from the continued, cool silence after N'thei's response that Satiet has no intention of speaking with little ears listening, the guards fall back even further, far across the cavern to the base of the stairs that lead up into the hold proper. "Well," the goldrider repeats, the hands at her side twitching at the sight of his face and the stained rag that drops into the cup. "I hope you're satisfied with yourself." A step closer and the glory is not so glorious though the attire is eye-catching, the strain of a sleepless night marring that faux mirth about her pale eyes. "Did they do that?" N'thei watches over the top of Satiet's head while the guards slink out of sight, finds his proper height just when the last of them disappears from earshot. "Them? Hardly. Telgar was here last night. I had one of their teeth as a souvenir for you, but it got lost." What should be the least of his concerns. "I'll apologize if you want me to." Swollen gray eyes now search sleepless blue ones, hopeful she'll say no to that. "No." She obliges, instantly dismissive of the need to beg forgiveness of them. "They're watching us," is added, needlessly, the self-reminder impetus to begin moving, doing anything to provide a good show, if not an audible one. The cup he holds is reached for, another step bringing her closer to inspect N'thei's face with uplifted, keen eyes tracing each scar and swollen bruise. What she sees draws a mocking curve along her lips. "And here, I was under the impression you could just quell Telgar's pansy-assed riders with one look. How manly. How unexpected." N'thei smiles, a showy smile that probably won't earn him any sympathy when it gets back to the Cromese that their captive is in such high spirits, split lip and all. "Only the little ones." He passes the cup with more delicacy than a bit of tin, water, and towel need, sure to press Satiet's hands to it before it's relinquished. Quietly, head lowered just a little toward Satiet's; "I think ours was better a better fuck-you than Telgar's. --What will you tell Crom?" The mocking curve deepens, crookedly claiming the rest of her face in its smirk, brought forth by the smile, the press of his hands to hers, the words. Whatever the case may be, the Reaches goldrider is pleased despite the state and turn of events. Without a glance for the contents, no need to stare at bloodied water lest she turn green, slim fingers reach into the cup to draw out the towel, wringing it with one hand and stretching up high to aim a dab at N'thei's split lip, oddly gentle if it touches and at complete odds with the lack of warmth, maternal or otherwise, from Satiet. "Nothing you need to know. Nothing you -should- know." Again dismissive, pale eyes remain intent on his various injuries rather than lifting to catch his expression. "How are the others?" N'thei may be wrapped around Satiet's little finger, but he can still summon a bitter word for her now and then. "No doubt it will be diplomatic." A word he clearly has had enough of. Eyes now pinned to hers again, his brows pulled together in a pleading expression, he shakes his head fractionally; please not diplomatic? Hissing a breath in through his teeth, sore-lipped and unmanly in response to cold water and tender fingers; "I don't know. Probably as bad. The little one tried to run, A'son had a go at that bastard from the fair. Will you tend them too?" "No doubt," is uttered, 'ignorant' of his silent pleas so intent is she on dabbing the towel against his lips. "Because," Satiet continues, soaking the towel in water and using her free hand to his chin to compel it down, more on her level than his full height. "I am, of course, the picture of diplomacy." Reaching with the towel to press against his swollen temple, the raven-haired woman finally meets the grey eyes pinned to hers. "The little one. Jolak. The bastard from the fair," this designation ruminates teeth over her lower lip as she considers and fills in duly, with a lilt of question, "A'zan? Telgar sent weyrlings?" Disbelieving laughter follows the mocking snort, garnering the attention of the guards on the far end of the outside cavern once more. "They sent /weyrlings/? Against the lot of you and you still lost? What's happened to your teeny, tiny ego, my love?" "One of the eleven men in the corridor must have spirited it away." N'thei starts to flare his nostrils in a snort, but his nostrils are in the same shape as his lip and his eye and his temple and his knuckles, so he stops short. "You are the picture of something," he adds in lovelorn admiration, the scabbed knuckles come up to graze the curve of Satiet's wrist, the one that's got control over the angle of his chin right now. Let the guards think he's giving her love-speeches in here for the look on his face; "I think B'yan double-crossed us." The mocking pauses, the poised face stilling in a tableau of fatigue unshielded and lip-parted surprise -- so struck by his confessions of love. When she speaks, she also reanimates, the parted lips pursing on the heels of a cold, controlled exhalation. "Did he?" Satiet drops the towel into the tin, using N'thei's shirt and chest to wipe her damp hand free, nonchalant. "Will you say as much when they question you?" If they haven't already. Continuing the ruse is as simple as the now dry hand reaching up to caress N'thei's jawline with curling fingers and then splaying them light up over his shoulders. N'thei shows a shake of his head to Satiet and Satiet alone, so slight a movement that she'll be lucky to catch it let alone guards on the other side of bars on the other side of the room. "That's my problem to solve, not theirs." One hand rests at the goldrider's hip comfortably, as if it had been there a million times before and not the unfamiliar trespasser it is, the other with fingers curved to tip the sharp chin upward delicately. "No. They think I'm angry and belligerent and incompetent, the drunk bastard who called names at the trade fair. It makes them happy to have out-smarted us. You are unfairly beautiful in this ugly place." Let them catch words like beautiful to boot. "Your problem to solve." Displeased with that appropriation of B'yan's defection, Satiet's body stiffens, inappropriately in light of words such as 'beautiful' and the hand that claims ownership of her hip and face. "Fine," she finally replies, as if she has any say in the matter to give him carte blanche in how to deal with B'yan, "Your problem to solve. They're calling for your head anyway." Noted lowly, sheer force of will compels her body to obey and relax into his touch and the hand about his neck aims to bring him down just a little more so the words can be whispered, breath teasing to his ear. Quieter, her body melting up into his to mask any exchange that occurs with fascination for a supposed lover's exchange, she murmurs, "Play along with what you hear. Agree. I'll take care of it so I don't have to look at your or their decapitated heads on my mantel." N'thei's hands, for all their personal affiliation with Satiet's body at the moment, are cold and cheerless. The appearance of tenderness is there while they brush a hair from the goldrider's temple, slide around to the back of her neck beneath her hair in flagrant familiarity for appearance's sake. "I will. However you would have it arranged, my love. But you bend a knee to these people, even pretend to apologize for what we did, and I will let them know just how far the other way you looked." For a moment, rough cheek to her smooth one, he brushes a bruised lip across her flawless mouth and then looks down with a glint in his eyes that she at least will recognize; catch-his-drift? A flare of spite, the displeasure deepening, draws her lips away from his ears and flashes bright in her aloof study of N'thei. "You'd do better not to threaten me." The meeting of lovers, the parting of lovers; the brush of his bruised lips and expectant gaze is met with a fierce, more cruel, crushing kiss designed to inflict pain where she can and however she can. Her, "Don't be stupid," when she pulls back is no answer at all to his threats, but the cold fury of blue fires in her eyes to answer his gaze is expected to suffice. "I should see tend to the others." N'thei hurts. The grunt he swallows answers to that. "But I am stupid. And stupid people never know when to shut up." If Satiet is going to kiss him until it hurts, he'll kiss her until it doesn't, the cold hand along the curve of her neck grown warmer, the push at her hip now to draw her flush against him. "All I want." He pulls away only because there's a taste of blood against his teeth, his lip taking a whole new abuse. "Is that you keep your dignity. No apologies. And I will say whatever you want, agree with every lie. --You should see to the others." Satiet's smug self-satisfaction with the effects of her kiss last only so long, cut short by what N'thei says. Tellingly, her chin lifts with a smidgeon more pride than is actually true. An absent hand lifts to wipe away from her own mouth what of the bloodied lip transferred and this, instead of against his shirt, wipes against her pants. "I lost my dignity when I accepted Telgar's pity. But thanks for your concern." Abruptly, she turns and while N'thei doesn't see, the guards can see a woman on the verge of a break down. Love, most likely. A single lifted hand beckons their presence once more, and shortly the weyrwoman is on one the right side of the bars. "Next." N'thei drops back to the end of his cot, eyes set to burn holes in Satiet's back until she's out of sight, the back of his hand held to slow blood leaking out of his face. The guards sit around to see if /all/ of the Reaches captives get treated so affectionately, anyone want to bet on it seeing as they've heard stories about the High Reaches Weyrwoman? |
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