Logs:In Control of Death
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| RL Date: 30 September, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, Tiriana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 11, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Lujayn/Mentions, N'thei/Mentions, Berit/Mentions |
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| Records Room, High Reaches Weyr(#367RJs) 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 morning, 10:03 of day 20, month 11, turn 17 of Interval 10. It's autumn inspections, the one time of the turn Satiet forces not only herself but others under the auspices of her management, to make their rounds about the Weyr; from room to room to reacquaint everyone with what should be there and what should not, what they're doing well and what they are not. Liberal in her curt and pithy manner with her criticisms, spare with the compliments, by the records room, there've been at least a few trembling, pressed lips and what started out as a cluster of assistants have been pared away as they've been reassigned to other tasks along the way. In the last room for the day, the records, there's only a handful of girls left. Far from Tiriana's favorite time of the turn, she's spent the last days in increasingly grumpy fashion, the more she's pressed into inspecting. Now, in records, her work is hardly the meticulous checking it's supposed to be, as she rather mindlessly scans shelves to make sure all the records are being put back in the correct order. Occasionally she even rearranges something, stuffing a hide or two back where they belong after being checked out. Management manages so others can do the actual work, right? On the other hand, when work isn't being done as it should, Satiet's interventions are less verbal and more of the: coolly reaching out to pluck hides from someone's hand and doing it herself wordlessly type. It's censure enough for the girl in question who moves on to the next set of shelves with such a cool example in mind. From there, the Weyrwoman makes her way down the shelves to stand just behind Tiriana. "Is this what weyrwomen do at Telgar?" Tiriana jumps at the voice behind her, turning sharply enough to bump the shelves; she catches herself with a braced hand on it. "Yes," she answers then, shooting a look from Satiet to shelving and back. "That's how I do it, anyway. And our old Weyrwoman, did you ever see /her/? She was worse." Defensive, she starts to cross her arms, but stops, settling for leaning a hand on the rack of books behind her instead, attempted nonchalance. The rope Satiet's extended Tiriana seems to be adjusting nicely about the other goldrider's neck the more she speaks, the more defensive she gets, and in kind Satiet's small smile just grows fractionally with each passing moment. A slim hand lifts, reaching past High Reaches' newest goldrider to reshelve something already touched by the other woman, and on its way back, pauses to tuck the young woman's hair behind her ear. "I meant," she finally begins, volume low and meant for the goldrider's ears alone, "Do you spend your time reshelving records rather than ordering people around?" Tiriana doesn't flinch away from the hand that reaches out for her, though her eyes cut that way to watch all the same. She shrugs afterward, a sulky glance shot at the floor and then the other industrious workers. "Well. They just go do their own thing anyway, everybody does," she complains, her plaintive voice carrying further than Satiet's. "So I told them to do that. It's not like they need me." "And you like ordering people around." It's a statement, not question, as if Satiet's already discerned this part of Tiriana's likes and dislikes and assumes that's what drives the other woman. "So," begins the slighter of the pair, her tone too mellow for the sarcasm that should be inherent in such shared thoughts, "I find it surprising that you've thrown yourself into the gusto of reshelving. Have taken to such menial labor with such high industry. Tell me, goldrider," a casual hand reaches forth to brace her frame against one of the lower shelves, a shoulder twisting to lean against neatly arranged books, "Why you Impressed gold?" In the expectant wait, the lift of her brows, it should be fairly clear she's not wanting the rote, 'Because Iovniath chose me,' response. Should be, right? Stung, even hurt, Tiriana doesn't think much more than she did before her previous answer, though at least this response is spurred on by anger rather than pure indifference. "So what if I did? My lineage never shadowed nothing, and anyway, what do you know," she explodes, flushing a dark color. "Of course it's just--it's just--it's not like /they/ deserved it, anyway. Iovniath just--not /my/ fault." With Tiriana's explosion, the leftover girls look both relieved, alarmed, and quite a few, if they could, would take pictures of this moment. As it is, a quick, cold look from Satiet sends them out the door rather than risk the Weyrwoman's wrath, but gossip will have fodder for the night and then some. She waits until they're alone, when that last assistant's disappeared, before she strides across to lock it from the inside; the perks of having keys to every room in the Weyr, really. From that door, Satiet looks to Tiriana. "She slept with your weyrmate, didn't she? That's got to be a blow to your pride." Relentless, in that continually even, moderate tone of voice. She could be talking about the weather. "Iovniath, she hasn't risen yet. Does it bother you? Tell me, Tiriana, what do you /want/?" "It's just a fucking flight," although it takes every bit of Tiriana's pride to grate those words out. Locked in with the elder goldrider, she straightens her shoulders, though her arms remain crossed and her back toward the shelves of hides that started all this mess. Where Satiet's calm, Tiriana definitely looks rattled, uncomposed. Her jaw tightens. "So? She's young. Just because everybody else--" Not a thought she wants or needs to finish. "You didn't answer my question." But it's understandable, says that calm, placating tone. That hint of condescension carried in the buoyant levity that lightens the coolness. Tiriana's angry, she forgot to answer a question. Tiriana's buttons are being pushed with so many innocent comments. Satiet can understand Tiriana and allow her these little moments to air her grievances rather than answer a question. Really. Satiet maintains her ground, leaned with one lifted foot rested against the door. Maybe Tiriana's hard of hearing, says that almost girlish head tilt from the older goldrider. "Would you like me to repeat it for you?" That cool condescension only inspires further irate flushing in Tiriana, her mouth twisting into an ugly position as she glowers at Satiet. "I want you to lay off me already, how's that?" she snips back. "What do /you/ want, anyway? Can't, can't you--did N'thei--whatever. What're you taking it out on me for?" There's a good cutting retort there somewhere, says her frustrated expression; only Tiriana can't quite find it. Now that's one button to push and despite the fact that the 'cutting retort' in such jumbled statements is lost on her, the intent of it isn't. The distant smugness of having the upperhand falters, but it's a brief, fleeting moment after which those pale eyes disappear into narrow slits. "Do you think I toy with you to take out some inner frustration? Do you think everyone is as petty, childish, and stuck at the age of twelve as you are? Really?" This is a no holds barred session, Satiet's casual posture suddenly straightening so that one leg falls to the ground. "Oh, poor, poor Tiriana. So misunderstood. So neglected. So put upon. Grow up, my little bitch. Because one day, I'll be tired of waiting for you to grow up and maybe you'll find I'll have the audacity to time my death just before Rielsath rises. Or just live forever." Own eyes narrowed, Tiriana is watching closely for some kind of reaction to her attempted jibe; she'll take anything, at this point, and it's delight (however mean-spirited) that flits over her own expressive face. "You aren't?" There are other reasons to pick on her? Her brows furrow as she tries to imagine that one and fails. Shaking her head, brushing it off, the girl is about to blow right over that statement, and over Satiet's harsh advice as well; but that latter insinuation pulls her up short. Her lips slacken into an abruptly befuddled, "What?" "Oh, spare me. That you haven't thought of it at some point. That it's not something that every goldrider thinks of after they Impress. Some day." In those two words, carries a mocking fervent hope. "That /you/ didn't think of it that day Zibeth rose at Fort." Seriously? If Tiriana means for Satiet to believe that befuddlement, she's doing a bang up job -- even if it is genuine. "You or Lujayn. Or whatever lucky woman gets to ride gold under my management. The safe money's riding on Lujayn, if lower caverns' gossip is anything to be listened to. But when," and knowing that Tiriana's mean-spirited delight is short-lived coaxes her thin smile all the cattier, "Have I ever enjoyed safe? Then again, when will I be stupid enough to die and leave the Weyr to someone as petty and childish as you?" Food for thought; can Satiet really control death? "Just because /I/ think it--" begins another heated protest at Satiet's words. It's one thing, after all, for Tiriana to think it; another for the Weyrwoman to say it to her. Despite that initial surprise, Tiriana has had another nerve struck, one that makes her own posture stiffen more defiantly. "And I'm not a child, either," she declares. "Then I'll see you tomorrow morning in my chambers when I wake up. Teonath will tell Iovniath. You'll have ten minutes to show up, dressed properly and ready for the day." Curt business-like is at least not calm and condescending. "That is," Satiet's just snide enough to add, "If you're really not a child." Behind her, the door unlocks with a click and a scurry of feet are heard; eavesdroppers. "You have the rest of the day off," is all the slight woman says before turning to leave. "I'm not." One more sharp assertion of that ensues, Tiriana mouth tightening again as Satiet leaves her. Alone, she turns to give the bottom of the bookcase a kick, scatter the unshelved hides, and then she can actually stalk out herself, once Satiet is well away. |
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