Logs:Lost Shoes, Lost Brother, Lots of Drinking
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| RL Date: 14 September, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, Tiriana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The aftermaths of the Tillekian brewfest. Tiriana and play a game of truths. |
| Where: Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 9, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Anvori/Mentions, Edeline/Mentions, Sh'drian/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions |
| It is an autumn night, 18:15 of day 28, month 9, turn 17 of Interval 10. It's in complete silence that the goldpairs return, the short flight up above Tillek's skies turning into those three heartbeats between before appearing above High Reaches Weyr. Home. From there, in continued silence, Teonath radiating cold, brittle anger while Satiet sits stoically silent, the senior pair drops down to their ledge with alacrity and only after she's alighted, talons clawing into the stone, that the elder queen imparts, « After you land and she tends to your needs, she is expected in Satiet's weyr. » And that's where it's at now; Teonath's straps removed and Satiet discovering that her cute little metallic shoes are now lost in some Tillekian meadow. Just behind Teonath, Iovniath is also a cold presence, though one not nearly so angry as the elder dragon; the Telgari-bred queen lands lightly on her own ledge to allow Tiriana to dismount and stalk inside the weyr. There, she takes a few moments to collect herself, or try to, sliding off her own shoes and changing out of her party finery into something more comfortable before she gets Iovniath's straps off her. Then, setting her shoulders, and sharing a wary, uncertain look with her dragon, Tiriana heads next door to the entrance of Satiet's weyr. Tiriana finds Satiet standing in the middle of her entrance foyer, looking down at her feet. What anger carried her across that field with her head held high and then into the skies and back has fled in favor of this glum look; at her feet. Aware, if only of the footsteps that trek towards her weyr entrance and assuming who it is without turning around, she says aloud, "I left my shoes there." It actually holds a note of sadness, a sorrow brought by tiredness that then segues into a question that's not really a question in and of itself: "Do you want a drink?" It's wistful, almost as if she's asking Tiriana permission to do so, and would refrain if the younger woman declines. That expression on Satiet's face pulls Tiriana up, slowing the younger woman's entrance, making her pause just past the doorway as she glances down at Satiet's feet. "Oh. Sorry?" she offers automatically, glancing from bare feet up to Satiet's face blankly. And nevermind they've spent all--well, a good part, anyway--of the day drinking, Tiriana nods enthusiastically to that latter question. "Yes, please." "Good." One wonders how Satiet might have reacted had that been a no. Shaking off the glum absentmindedness the awareness of her lack of shoes situation has brought on, the slight woman makes her way towards a well-stocked pantry and pours out two drinks of unlabeled, strong and foul whiskey for the pair. Her return to Tiriana takes a detour towards her couch, an idle wave gesturing the younger goldrider to join her. She's barely seated, one foot tucked beneath her, when she asks, "How much do you know?" with her clear gaze focusing intently on the other woman. Tiriana steps further in while Satiet gets the drinks, and she leans all around to take a good look at the weyr in the meantime, rather than study the other woman. "Enough, I figure," she answers after a moment, as the question jars her attention back around to look at Satiet. Tiriana heads over to join her on the couch, sitting carefully, without the at-homeness of her host. "She killed him, didn't she." It's no question. Still wearing her gather finery, it makes it awkward to sit in absolute comfort without sacrificing a degree of propriety. Lucky for Satiet, she has no trouble sacrificing such things as she cozies into the back of her plush cushions. When Tiriana sits, then does she lean forward to offer the second glass of foul liquor to the other woman. "Someone did," says the devil's advocate, those pale eyes steady on the once foreigner. "Or he drank too much and fell down the stairs." The recollection of seeing the broken body of Lord Tillek elicits a shudder from the weyrwoman, her closed eyes making the drink that knocks back a blind one. Tiriana eyes the liquor in her hand for a moment before she tips it back herself; the foulness of it makes even her choke a little, clearing her throat after she gets it down. While Satiet sinks back into the cushions, her guest leans forward, forearms on her knees. She glances back frowning at the elder goldrider. "She killed him," Tiriana asserts once more, with a nod to emphasize it. "Too convenient, she did it. She had to of." "You're so certain." Without her anger to sustain her, Satiet rests her head against the back of her couch, dark hair spilling loose past her shoulders as it comes naturally undone from its loose bun. "We should've interfered. Cemented the Weyr's position in this and-." Abruptly stopping short with a sharp shake of her head, the slight woman drains what's left of her drink in one gulp, face contorting at the taste, before she's up and back to the pantry in a few quick strides. When she returns, she climbs over the back of the couch and slides down back to her spot. The bottle is with her and her glass is refilled. "What *do* you think the Weyr's position should be?" "Well, yeah." Tiriana blinks at Satiet, mouth pursing as though she's suddenly rethinking that. "--Didn't she?" She straightens up, leaning back just a little, in time to stare openly at Satiet climbing over the back of the couch to rejoin her. "What do I... Me?" Relaxing only slightly, she leans back against the couch back herself, eyeing her glass again. "They're not /really/ Blood. Don't deserve anything even if they didn't kill him. Which they did." The conspiracy theory expands from just the one she now. It's not a point Satiet misses, her fine brows arcing at the new pronoun introduced. "So it's just one big, fucking conspiracy. The mother, the stepson, her family maybe? Perhaps his father didn't pass away accidentally?" Conspiracy to the ridiculous. "So you think being Blooded matters more than capability? People say Nederan isn't a horrible steward of the Hold for all his manners lack. Has Edeline proven herself either way?" Contemplatively, the glass in her hand is swirled, distracting her pale-eyed focus from Tiriana to the sloshing liquid. "Are you Blooded on top of your," a mocking beat, "Other impeccable lineage?" "Maybe," Tiriana retorts, defensiveness coloring her voice as she scowls over at Satiet. "You shouldn't ask if you don't like the answer." She sulks, but reaches out to offer her emptied glass for a refill, too. The latter question earns an unhappy shake of her head, though. "No. My grandfather was a steward, though," offers the girl after another moment. "Uncle is now. Anyway, I can still appreciate it. The Blood." "Steward. Of course." Something of Satiet's demeanor changes from interested to dismissive, sinking back further into her couch corner. Her other leg lifts now to rest on the seat's edge, knee bent to provide a rest for her second glass of fast disappearing toxic waste. Though her glass isn't quite empty yet, she pours herself a liberal splash more and then reaches forth to place the bottle on the couch between the two women before settling back. "You didn't answer my question," she notes after a lengthy pause, a sharp expression cast to Tiriana. "Do you think Blood makes a difference?" "Steward," Tiriana also repeats the word, though she frowns as she says it, and she fidgets on the couch before reaching to grab up the bottle between them. She pours herself another full glass, sets it back down, then takes a sip though it still has her making an involuntary face. "Why would we have 'em if it didn't?" That doesn't pause Satiet as much as have her drink again, eyes shutting as the liquor works its way through her system to flush pale cheeks. "Indeed," is what she finally says, resigned. "But for fun, let's play a game." With no rules or explanation, the slighter of the pair looks up with pursed lips and a pale, pointed gaze. "Ysave or Satiet?" It's hardly a fair game the erstwhile Tillek widow not present while Satiet is to exact retribution if the game doesn't go the way she wants. Tiriana, even this early in the night, is already eyeing what's left in her glass askance, less eager now as she gets another drink of it. However, at the mention of the game, she stops entirely to look over at Satiet, confusion evident in her expression. "... You?" she ventures slowly--pure guess, obviously. She laughs, amused and looks into her glass. "Me, for what?" The virtual rope is offered, Satiet waiting expectantly for either an answer or Tiriana to hang herself with it. Flustered and frustrated, Tiriana waves one hand as though that's going to clear it up. "I don't know, you asked," she says, head shaking. "I don't know what it's supposed to be for." It does encourage her to get the rest of that rotgut down this time, though. Maybe it's Tiriana's frustration, or the way she downs her glass finally; but Satiet looks to the other goldrider with suddenly mild eyes. The subject of Tillek, Blood, and Ysave is set aside. "So, besides the uncle and grandfather who is the steward, your Weyrleader father," the slightest hitch where a purse of her lips and displeasure hinting in the darkening of her eyes follows that name, "Your other uncle who was once Weyrsecond at Telgar, your dead goldriding mother, and your Fortian weyrmate; tell me one thing about yourself I don't already know." And she's so obliging to start. "My father's a Tillekian fisherman." Beat, then inwardly turned mocking. "For example." Made no less uneasy by the recitation of her family members, Tiriana shrugs when the question is turned on her. "I think that's all of them. The important ones, anyway," she answers after a moment, frowning. Time for another refill. "--Really?" Satiet's example proves more interesting for her, as Tiriana glances around with a frown, half-unbelieving. "Really." But Satiet is undeterred by Tiriana's curiosity. "I also knit. Your turn. One thing about yourself I don't know." "Did you make--?" A lightbulb clicks somewhere, but Tiriana doesn't finish that thought. She looks instead like she's trying very hard and not very successfully to picture Satiet knitting. Eventually, she tries, "Grew up on an island and I never went fishing. Looked boring, more than hunting. My daddy was a hunter, before." "Figures." To speak of Sh'drian, fortification is required, and Satiet knocks back the last of her glass but refrains from refilling it just yet. A slim leg, with its clingy white fabric bunched about her knees, extends along the back of the couch, stretched to reach Tiriana, but falling short by a few inches. "He came to visit. Said he needed to see who was taking care of his daughter now." "Is that what he told you." Tiriana doesn't quite look at Satiet, though the elder woman reaches a hand out; she's more interested in finishing off what's in her glass as well, eyeing it mournfully after. "S'pose he found out, too." Silence filled by the pour of a refill, extends well into Satiet taking another shot. It's broken when Satiet's liquor-harshened alto asks, "Does he actually give a shit about you, or was his intentions to come fuck me all along?" The beginnings of her usual defense are on her lips, Tiriana shooting a sharp look at Satiet. In fact, the "don't--" even makes it out of her mouth, before she cuts off the entire statement with a thinning of her mouth. Gratingly deliberately, she manages, "Ain't come back, has he?" "Bothers you, does it?" Though a rhetorical question, Satiet doesn't give Tiriana any time to respond. "That's fine, my father's only visited the Weyr once since I Impressed. And no, he won't. At least not to haunt my ledge. You may however," suggests the goldrider, slowly curling her extended leg back beneath her, "Wish to send him an ice pack, however belatedly. The thought might be appreciated." "Your fisherman father." Small comfort for Tiriana, though she tries very hard not to look as ruffled by the thought as she plainly is. She fidgets with the glass in her hands, making no move to refill it; after another second of this, she finally slides down into the cushions herself, tilted just a touch sideways to lean her shoulder against the corner of the couch. "--Of course he won't be back." As certain of that as of Drehfti's murder, she shakes her head. "Didn't expect him in the first place." "My fisherman father," agrees Satiet. "By the grace of my father's lineage, it would take a gold dragon or a Master's knot for Lady Ysave to look me in the eye as an equal." Food, or rather, drink for thought as she pours herself yet another glass. Curious, eyes glassy for the alcohol sinking in, "Do you find your father a charming man?" "Which you have," points out Tiriana, the philosophical what-ifs lost on her literal mind. Slouched, she glances sideways to watch Satiet get another drink, then sets her own glass down on the cushion and slides it away from herself. Confused, "He gets what he wants." Charming enough. Disagreement comes a little smug; "Not always." But then she's agreeable once more, despite Tiriana's miss with philosophical wonderings. "So I have. Could've missed my chance if I got married. Ah yes," a sudden smile graces Satiet's face, coupled with the flush of intoxication, makes her softer appearing. Prettier. "I had a suitor who would likely have ended up my husband had I not accepted Search and Impressed. A near miss as a fisherman's wife and forever unable to meet Ysave in the eye like today. Your turn." Back to the game. Tiriana shakes her head. "Always," whatever Satiet tries to say to the contrary. But marriage? It makes her grimace, just the thought. "Wasn't ever getting married," she claims. "Always knew I was going to impress. Someday. It just... took a while." Pause. Frown. "Daddy scared off anybody that'd of wanted to, anyway." Not her; no reflection on her at all. "Not /alwa-... Well, /shit/." Out of nowhere, the expletive expels and Satiet looks ready to stand, but in the way of drunkards everywhere, gets her bottom just off the couch and then sinks right back down again. Dizzy for her efforts, sne waves a helpless little hand. "Left my brother at Tillek. Left my fucking shoes at Tillek and my brother." From helpless to misdirected, her slim hand rakes through her hair, pulling free any strands still attached to the diamond clips. "Know someone that just pisses you off so much you can't see straight and do stupid shit?" Gone is any eloquence of prior encounters as she contemplates the bottle and then her empty glass. The abrupt change in demeanor, the expletives that escape--Tiriana can't help her own choked giggle escaping. "Leastways he's likely to turn back up again?" she offers, with a lift of her shoulders and a cough that does little to clear either throat or head. She leaves Satiet to her trying to get up, herself settling back on the couch again with a snort at the latter question. "S'most people. Why d'you think I'm here." "He-," on that pronoun, the slight woman frowns, and decides that another drink -would- be the best solution and thus busies herself with the sloppy pouring. But afterwards, there's a moment, this funny little pause where Satiet, in her verging-on-drunkenness, looks at Tiriana all too clearly. "Do people really irritate you that much, or is the reflection of you in their eyes what really irritates you?" Hard, philosophical questions; the kind that make Tiriana mad when she's sober. Drunk, they just make her confused, her expression blank as she tips back sideways into the corner of the couch. No more for her now, though she twists her head to watch as Satiet pours another for herself. "I--Wait, what? Does it matter?" Beat. Her voice rises slightly, "Why, do they see something? They don't see nothing. Me and people, we just--don't like each other," she says, with a tiny little shake of her head. "You're wrong." Satiet thinks on this a little, lifts two fingers away from her glass so it's held precariously by three. "Again. About your father, about that. I like you, bitchiness and self-defensive low self-esteem and all. Do you want something else to drink?" Eyeing Tiriana's glass, the alcoholic of a weyrwoman flicks pale eyes from it to the pantry and then back. Tiriana sits up sharply, though she has to steady both hands on the couch and stop a second to make sure she's not going to just fall over spontaneously again. "Nuh-uh, /you're/ wrong," she snaps then, completely unaware of any potential undermining going on. "I do not have low self-esteem. And I'm not--I mean, I am bitchy but--but--fuck. Yes." Losing her train of thought somewhere in there, she gives up in favor of just picking up her glass and holding it out. "You're kinda bitchy too," she mutters, small comfort. Satiet doesn't disagree, but she does pluck that glass out of Tiriana's hands, and this time, somehow manages to stand up. Perhaps seeking liquor and seeking her brother in Tillek (and her shoes) are two (three) entirely different endeavors on her priority scale. Her intoxication doesn't show in the way she walks, a concentrated straight line towards the pantry to retrieve a bottle of something nicer and pouring it with utmost care into the two empty glasses. Then, a straight line back to sink into the seat by Tiriana. Right by her. "And which bitchy tends to win more often, y'think?" While Satiet gets up, Tiriana takes the opportunity to get more comfortable, sliding her feet out of her half-laced boots and pulling them up on the couch with her. Reaching at once for the nearest glass when Satiet returns, she works up to a scowl after a brief eyeing of the sudden lack of distance between them. "Never win anything anymore. Can't even let me be right about my daddy. Or me," she pouts. Slim hands hold tight around that nearest glass, keeping it from Tiriana as pale eyes just -look- over the rim at the other woman. "Well," she asks, brows arced high, "Are you right? What *do* you think your daddy wanted when he got here, and do you honestly think he got it? And you said you and people don't like each other, but I like you. You're refreshingly amusing in an irritating sort of way." And /now/, now, Tiriana might need that drink so Satiet let's go and focuses on her own brandy. Denied the glass, Tiriana's lips purse further, and she shrugs. "He wanted... to meet you. Fuck you," she amends. "He likes--that." Whatever that is; Tiriana can't explain it and waves it off with her hand and a frustrated sigh when she finally gets hold of her drink. "You don't count, you're not people." Beat. "Refres... Is that supposed to be a compliment?" "You can take it as one." But whether it's a compliment or not, there's only the simplest little shrug that ripples the gauze-like fabric of Satiet's dress. She plucks idly at the skirt, rearranging it, flattening it against her legs, taking intermittent sips in between her actions. "Unless your father makes it a habit of pursuing women who want nothing to do with him, I doubt he'll be back at any point. I could," she considers Tiriana in a sidelong glance, then smiles, "Give him a bruise on his eye to match the one I gave you?" Talk of Sh'drian provides momentary distraction from the day's events, and in the pause the results afterward, the weyrwoman tips her head back into the couch and studies the ceiling. "I'd like you to talk to Lujayn. She's no longer able to travel and is probably feeling a little disconnected from the events and news. Tell her," a beat, "Whatever you'd like." "Only 'til they give 'im what he wants," says Tiriana, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinizes Satiet. "He'd just like it, anyway," of the bruise. She shrugs herself, then takes a long drink from her new glass herself, before, startled by the latter order, she pulls it down from her mouth sharply, bobbling it slightly. Quickly, she tightens hands back around it, scowling as much at how much coordination that now requires as she is at Satiet's request. "Why do /I/ have to?" Good liquor apparently combats the ill-effects of bad liquor and that hazy line between drunk and pleasantly intoxicated becomes much clearer the more careful sips Satiet takes. Her free hand drifts to wrap about the upper half of her other arm, splaying in a way that makes the delicate fingers have the wider grip of a much larger hand. "Because, if I have to go explain this to someone else tonight without any real answers of my own," the hand about her arm tightens in an ineffectual squeeze, "I might throw something." Clear eyes turn sharply upon the younger goldrider. "And because I'm ordering you to do so." Tiriana sniffs, but with a resigned nod, she agrees. "Fine, fine." As though Satiet required her agreement in the first place. "I'll go talk to her. Tonight? --Like I have more answers." Pause. "Or don't throw things. Least /you/ got to go up there and see and not just stand around like the rest of the idiots there." "Well, consider this a test then, Tiriana." It's amazing just just how the artful use of emphasis combined with a slow, deliberately infused Tillekian drawl, can make Tiriana's four-syllable name ring mocking challenge in each enunciation. "Of how well you can convey something without throwing something. And trust me, there was very little you'd have wanted to see." The night's second recollection of crumpled limbs draws forth a low, harsh exhalation from the goldrider. "Now, you're just bothering me. Go." With a flush brought on not just by the generous amounts of liquor consumed tonight, let alone earlier in the day, Tiriana stiffens and then pushes herself upright on the couch if not her feet. "What happened to refreshingly amusing," she grumbles, sliding to the edge of the couch and then eyeing her feet. With a last bracing drink, and then glass set aside empty, she keeps one hand on the couch arm while she works on standing on up, not steadily at all. Lucky for Satiet, dismisser and owner of the weyr they're in, she doesn't have to attempt standing again for a while. Tiriana's departure doesn't even garner a fifth of her attention as she stares contemplatively into the unlit and empty hearth and imbibes from her glass. So, with a last look back at the figure on the couch, Tiriana toddles on out. |
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