Logs:Meeting Satiet
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| RL Date: 3 September, 2008 |
| Who: Paige, Satiet |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'gand keeps Paige waiting by the lakeshore at High Reaches, which results in a chance meeting with Satiet, yet another person who (almost) recounts her not-so graceful Impression. |
| Where: Lakeshore, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 8, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
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| In the summer, the sun sets late at High Reaches Weyr, and even now, the sun's brilliant light radiates across a cloudless sky in its ever-slow descent along the western rim of the bowl. Many Weyrfolk are out enjoying the warm weather before summer's a distant member, sharing picnic meals at the lakeshore or just walking about. Midst this, jogging, rather than walking, Satiet's slim figure strikes a distinctively driven figure as she loops around the far (quieter) end of the lake in shorts and a loose top. Unfamiliar faces pepper the clusters of weyrfolk enjoying the milder weather; a few visitors stand out here and there, distinctive by their shoulders' lack of blue-black cording. One of them is a greenrider from Fort, a slender figure who isn't so much having a picnic as simply sitting in the grass, fingers plucking absently at a small blossom being twirled in a hand. While her activity could be attributed to sheer idleness, there's a slip of a smile playing about her lips that indicates otherwise. Occasionally, she glances up and over toward the bowl, expectant, resuming her petal plucking each time when the awaited party fails to appear. Satiet's driven jog begins to slow, reaching what might be a natural end as the raven-haired woman approaches the waiting woman. Noticer of many, failure in missing much, perhaps those pale eyes have taken in, in a distant flickering study, Paige's expectant wait or the distractions the vision of romance personified finds in petal plucking; something compels the slight woman to slow and then stop. Two hands tug at her towel and a light stretch lifts her off her heels and forward slightly. "Waiting long?" asks the voice, the tone affable enough in its general cool distance. Fingers stilling as feet approach, pale eyes follow shoes and attire up to their owner's, expression tending toward sheepish. "Ain' been too long, " she replies easily, "but brothers're always slow, I reckon. 'Specially if'n they got company." So much for her anticipation being for a lover. "Y'run often?" Paige asks then, tipping a curious look up at Satiet. Battered running shoes lead into slim, athletic legs, then a pair of pink-trimmed white terry cloth shorts with its matching top. Perched above that is the dropped chin of a sharp-featured face where pale eyes are lit with a soon-to-be-enlightened curiosity. "Ahhh," exhales Satiet, a private smile curling the right corner of her mouth a little superciliously; humored that Paige isn't the likely lover though the vision still remains. Her return, "Always," trips easily as she eases into a cool down, stretching her back, shoulders, and arms; bending her knees and generally moving in a slow fashion. "You're not from around here." It's a statement, though there's the hesitant glint of a question in the blue of her eyes, a second guess ready to emerge should Paige prove her wrong. "T'ain' fer everyone, runnin', " Paige remarks amiably, hand gently releasing the almost petal-free bloom to the ground. "Mos' folks who try t'take it up dun always manage t'keep up with it so well; takes an awful lotta discipline." Satiet, therefore, must be awfully disciplined. Her knotted shoulder lifts briefly at the factual statement, a small smile dimpling at her cheeks. "Not anymore, " she admits, head shaking slightly. "Born and raised at Balen, though. Impressed at Fort, Ciath's - las'." Another shift, smile momentarily faltering before rounding out again. "M'brother rides here, though?" delivered brightly, as if she hopes it'll count for something. Keen eyes catch the falter of amiability, head tilting to one side, ostensibly to swipe the perspiration off the side of her neck. "Fortian," notes the slender woman, an amused light replacing the curiosity finally. The slow movements of cool down end as she looks down upon the dark-haired girl. "Ciath's last." A beat. Another tilt of her head. A part of her mouth. Then, further enlightenment that's not altogether pleased. "You're- the girl who...?" Perhaps if she just trails off into nothing, she might not have to actually relieve the experience of watching what happened at the Fortian hatching. As it is, Satiet looks faintly sickened and green about her jaw line. To her credit, perhaps, Paige doesn't attempt to helpfully complete the other woman's query. Instead, her chin ducks in time with a somewhat embarrassed flush, eyes downcast for a moment. "Didn' mean ter, " she both protests and confesses. A peek up, concern overtaking mortification for the jogger's expression. "Awful sorry, " she's quick to apologize, assuming correctly that Satiet must have been in attendance to know this and look so. "'Twas jus' - so scary. Bein' out there, like tha'." If that just isn't a kick in the gut after an exhausting run, dehydrated and meeting the Fortian girl who drove her away from the rest of the hatching. Satiet, to -her- credit, musters a weak line of a smile - barely there and pressed thin. Incapable of speech for a moment, the slight woman distracts herself by wiping off the remnant sweat along her limbs and neck back. A swallow finally precedes her willingness to speak once more, intonation just a little cooler. "I'm sure it isn't /your/ fault, being overwhelmed as such. From Balen you said?" Country bumpkin, much? But there's still that smile that's steadying itself from turning overly green. Paige looks all the more apologetic as Satiet works on regaining her composure, expression truly abashed by the time that cooler intonation finishes. "Yeah, Balen, " she confirms, hand still sitting atop the dropped flower that's somewhere at her side. "Never did come up t'the Weyr proper or anythin', even after m'brother Impressed. Didn' see him much after tha' fer - a while." His visits home, if any, were few and far between; judging by that pause, they could have been nonexistent. In repetition, Satiet finds poise once more: "Balen. Balen. You and your brother are from Balen." Physical poise, at the expense of her intellectual poise. The subject of her brother returning also brings with it a reminder that casts shadows across the dark-haired woman's face as she tips her head once more to one side. "Did they have harpers at Balen? Or perhaps," the smile that finds her lips oddly warms her unsubtle jibe, "You missed the lesson on introductions?" Her slim hand extends, "Satiet. High Reaches duties to Fort." Another apology follows in quick succession, even as Paige scrambles to her feet. Small hand meets slight, shake not quite timid, but not quite confident. "Paige, Tiasheth's. Fort's duties t'High Reaches." It takes a moment, perhaps, for the other woman's introduction to fully sink in. When it does, her eyes round further, another apology spilling forth. "Yer Satiet, " she says after, voice that of one who's finally putting a face with the names learned in harper lessons. " - Teonath's." Perhaps those lessons weren't remiss, after all. "You apologize too frequently," notes the goldrider, finding finally, in the proverbial kidheel grinding into the failing of others, composure. "Perhaps," Satiet leans in towards the suddenly standing girl, whose hand she holds more firmly than reciprocated, then clasps with her other. Low-voiced advice, "You might consider doing things that require apologies less," carries all of Satiet's returned good-humor, the Fortian incident of puking forgotten. For now. "Or consider that there's nothing to apologize for, Paige. How long has your brother kept you waiting?" And more importantly, says that lift of her chin above which a smirk toys. "What's his name?" Paige bites back an instinctive apology, a visible swallow that comes following Satiet's words, advice and returned humor. "If'n y'say so, " she says for the last consideration, brow furrowing just a tad. "Can' have been fer too long. Only been out here a half-hour or so, I reckon. Guess he ain' done with them sweeps yet." A pause, a timid half-smile for the smirk. "M'brother's I'gand, brown Khavoth's." Wingrider of nearly six turns. One last light squeeze then releases the greenrider's hands, "Your eyes are still apologizing for you, greenrider." It's a low warning that's followed quickly by a conversational redirect and straightening of her slim frame: back to that brother. "I'gand." A thoughtful lip purse does not bode well for that brownrider. "Tell him, next time, he shouldn't leave a pretty girl waiting, sister or no. It looks bad for my Weyr. Have a good evening, Fort." "I'm -- " A breath, then, as her hands are released, returned to her sides. " -- pleased t'have metcha, " is what Paige finally says, giving a dutiful nod regardless of the fact that the Weyrwoman might just get to him, first. Confused as to how it'd reflect poorly on Satiet's Weyr, and it shows, the greenrider is nevertheless quick to return a soft, "Y'have a good evenin', too, Satiet-ma'am." It's all one word, that name and respectful address. Satiet doesn't clarify her statement, despite noting the clear confusion, merely smiles a lip-pressed flash of a smile to the greenrider before making a slow trek back across the bowl, leaving Paige to do her waiting in peace. At least, a Satiet-less peace. |
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