Logs:Of Comfort and Ruin
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| RL Date: 26 March, 2007 |
| Who: R'hin, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 1, Month 6, Turn 11 (Interval 10) |
| Your location's current time: 1:36 on day 1, month 6, Turn 61, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer night. You stroll into an archway leading into the Weyrwoman's weyr. Satiet's Weyr The weyr is average sized for a queen's weyr, but still larger than the living quarters of most people. It consists of three smaller alcoves that extend out from the main entryway, each area delineated by outer layers of filmy curtains and a middle sheath of heavy woolen fabric. The general decorations are simplistic, and the color coordination delicately feminine. The entrance from the ledge leads into a small circular room large enough to hold six people comfortably, perhaps a few more. Sparsely decorated, a large stone table seems to be a fixture there, immovable through the turns with two cushioned wooden chairs of the most simplistic design around it. A hearth is situated against a wall, a smoke tunnel leading up and out somewhere into the bowl, and near this hearth is a large depression made from a dragon curling up, strewn with soft, mint-sweetened rushes. Pressed against the wall nearby is a single fold out cot, that for the moment is compacted and covered with a pale sunset yellow sheet. ('places' and '+view') In the main entry: R'hin and Satiet Obvious exits: Ledge Long distance to Satiet: R'hin snickers. While Thread falls outside, the queens of High Reaches remain grounded as a capable ground crew manages. One might expect the Weyrwoman to figurehead and sit on the ledge to watch or be at the helm of the ground crew, but regardless of where she might have been during fall, Satiet is within her weyr post, placidly knitting by the unlit hearth, feet tucked beneath her hips and her dark hair unbound to fall messily over her shoulders. By the time the Weyrleader's steps can be heard on the ledge, the wings have all reported in. Two deaths. Though the dragons no longer keen, any who heard it likely still retain the lingering sound in their head, difficult as it is to shake. R'hin disappears into his weyr, undoubtedly dumping all his gear, before stepping unannounced into Satiet's weyr, pausing in the entrance, red-rimmed pale eyes studying the Weyrwoman. He's looking tired; in fact, as he seems to relax, he looks exhausted, shedding all facades. His face is covered in smears of crack-dust, though he's made some attempt to wash up. She at least makes a pretty picture, dark hair and clean profile seemingly bent over the repetitive movement of her needles. It's always the little things that differentiate normalcy from a different day, as this day must be: the way her lips are pressed thin, not in sly manipulation, how there's liquid rimming her lower lids, only visible when her head tips up to shake back her loose hair, and the general lack of cold distance in her bent frame. But from a distance, Satiet is the picture of domesticity, a delicately sculpted porcelain teapot and tea cup on the table by her comfortable chair, and the endless, insufferable knitting. If she's heard the Weyrleader's return, his steps distant in his own weyr, and then approaching her, she doesn't turn, caught in her work. R'hin lingers there for moments longer before stepping quietly inside, eyes still fixed on her. His voice, when he speaks, is low, full of quiet concern, "You're well? And Teonath?" he asks, solicitously, in marked contrast to their interactions earlier in the day. Teonath would note Leiventh's circling presence above the hatching grounds for a short time, before the bronze settles down onto the ledge, exhausted. Unbidden, the bronzerider's hand reaches out to brush over Satiet's shoulders as he moves in behind her chair. The sands are protected by ceilings and the aerial tunnel that leads down into it was well protected if not by the other queens, by Teonath's sheer force of will - or so she might think. "We are," void of her aloof coolness Satiet's even alto is expressionless, "Both well. The eggs haven't walked away." Her knitting stills, the two needles crossed mid-purl, and then lays gently onto her lap. Closer, the weyrwoman's ivory skin is near translucent along her cheeks, and when his hand drops to her shoulder, dark lashes fall, head bent in what might be shame if this were not Satiet. "You're alive." Her low words, relieved, couple with one of her now free hands reaching up to ascertain this by brushing against his with trembly fingers. "Yes," the word is breathed in quiet reassurance into her ear, as R'hin leans down, arms wrapping around her from behind. The tight gesture a measure of the bronzerider's own relief, unstated. "It was bad," he admits, a slight tremor audible in bass tones, now. "I need something to drink." Beneath the embrace of his arms, Satiet sinks back into the cushioned comforts of her chair, cheek leaned to press against him: his arm, face, whatever is closest. Though liquid's long disappeared from her lower lashes, a hand lifts to rub tiredly at her eyes, then reaches up to slide easily across the smooth dome of R'hin's head. "I miss your hair," the goldrider replies in lieu of standing to get him a drink. The press against his upper arm, faint as it is, earns an audible hiss from R'hin as he straightens, grimace crossing his features for a moment. He straightens after her touch to his head, no witty comment forthcoming as would be normal. He helps himself to her liquor cabinet, well enough versed that he peruses it for only a moment or two before selecting the amber liquid and securing two glasses. "It'll grow back," is all he says, but with it comes the implication: he'll only let it when Thread stops falling. If it does. While many might claim Satiet lacks a soul, that there's no soft side to this goldrider, the hiss belatedly earns the Weyrleader's back as he walks towards her liquor cabinet, a look, concern rising into the pale blue eyes. Her cabinet, on the other hand, while stocked with the spiced brandy R'hin enjoys, is lacking several bottles since his last visit, their contents emptied no doubt into the belly of an alcoholic. Forgetting her knitting and how the purl stitch half-done falls apart, the weyrwoman rises to let it fall to the ground to move on the silence of bare feet to come up near the bronzerider. "Not soon enough," cooler this, her fingers test along his arm again, a delicate dance that grazes light against his shirt. If R'hin takes particular note of the diminished stock, he makes no comment on it. Two glasses are poured, the first offered to the raven-haired woman as she approaches. His fingers tighten around the glass, pulling away involuntarily from that touch. "Ashburn," he explains, dismissive. "I'll get numbweed from the healers later, when they're not so busy." He drops his gaze marginally, exhaling slowly, fingers of his other hand brushing against her cheek. "It could only be another day, another sevenday. Who knows." But though he speaks the words, he does not believe them, nor does his recent actions: abandoning the most of the long term plans he had for the future of the interval. Satiet takes the glass with her fingers that are denied their test of R'hin's arm, only to set it down on the surface beneath her liquor cabinet. Thin lips and a cool alto commands: "Strip." The exhale R'hin gives is one of weary obedience, glimmer of his normal humor surfacing as he murmurs, "You're a romantic at heart, lady of the spires." He does as bidden, however, unbuttoning his shirt just enough to be able to tug it over his head, glancing down at the red mark on his left bicep. "Be awed, Weyrleader," Satiet begins, regaining some of her own humor at his jest, "And learn of what a goldrider does in her spare time besides counting the spoons of the Weyr." A private joke, one only she might appreciate, a familiar sardonic smile twists the woman's mouth as she disappears into her bathing alcove, returning shortly with two small jars. "In our free time, not only do we filch numbweed, but we learn how to apply it." Both are flipped open, the first a scented oil, lavender, the second the white tips of numbweed. Appraising not only his arm, but the state of his attire, she notes with forcible lightness: "I did say strip, didn't I?" R'hin's brow quirks slightly, bemused by the talk of spoons. As Satiet disappears, he uses the opportunity to drain his glass and refill it, though isn't trying to hide it. "Beautiful -and- talented. Whoever would've thought?" he murmurs, pale eyes following her, a little of their usual warmth creeping in. His nose wrinkles as he catches wind of the scented oil. Long-sufferingly, and clearly put apon, he rolls his eyes ceiling-ward and mutters something about a less-authorative Weyrwoman. Dutifully, he sheds pants, too, slinging them over the back of a chair. Satiet skips a beat at that, the forced levity faltering on the jut out of her lower lip as she stares at the Weyrleader's suddenly pants less state. Charmed, her mouth shaping crooked to imprint her right dimple, she finally gives voice to low laughter. "If only all men obeyed so expediently," is her throaty murmur, the words caught for some reason halfway in the middle before regaining strength. Two fingers dip into the oil first and then scoop a small portion of numbweed onto the well oiled fingers. "Does it hurt?" she asks attempting nonchalance, as the cool medication is rubbed across the ash burn. His eyes follow her, and it's accompanied by a low-throated laugh. "Would it please you more if they did... or if they didn't?" R'hin asks, sly. "Somewhat," he adds, and she can probably feel the faint, automatic jerk as she touches fingers to the burnt area. "Aurora did not fly today," the goldrider continues to observe aloud, ignoring his sly return, a discomforted edge to her cool alto as she tends more gently to R'hin's injuries, though other hand lifts, reflexive in holding his elbow in a tight vise, keeping his arm still. Dark curls fall over her shoulder as she regards the burn further. "You should be more careful next time." Satiet's reproof lacks iciness, and after a step to get a more objective view of her handiwork, pale eyes climb to seek the bronzerider's face. "Not without its leader, no," R'hin returns, somewhat lightly, as if to diffuse any potential argument that might follow. His shoulders relax marginally under Satiet's ministrations, half tilting his head and turning as if to keep an eye on the goldrider. "I should be," he agrees, "But we were careful enough. Some suffered worse," he says in a remarkably even tone - a little -too- neutral to be completely open. Hesitation stills Satiet's features, presuming admonishment in his final comment. "The hatching will be soon," she replies, also neutral now instead of addressing the fall out of this fall. "Aurora will fly if it so pleases the Weyrleader." Slowly, she moves away, disappearing into the bathing cavern briefly and returning with a wetted towel wrapped around her oiled fingers and a roll of bandages in the other hand. "The oil," begins the weyrwoman, "Keeps the numbweed from touching my skin so I don't lose feeling." As if he really needs this sort of lesson -now-. "It pleases me," R'hin acknowledges, a slight softening audible in his tone. "It brings comfort to the wings to see the goldriders nearby," that admission comes in quiet voice, pale eyes still on Satiet's features. His lips quirk at her mini-lesson, though he doesn't say anything - merely looks as if he's paying attention until she gets closer, at which point he reaches for her arm with the intention of pulling her towards him. "If they bring comfort to others, then it is as the Weyrleader wishes." Remarkably docile in her response, Satiet's mild voice turns into a note of protest as she's drawn close to the bronzerider. "I haven't bandaged your arm up yet. The numbweed will get everywhere." Like on her - the horror. "Mm, should make things rather interesting," R'hin acknowledges her point, but doesn't use it as an excuse not to pull her lips towards his own. "You're just using me," the goldrider points out sharply, suddenly cold, dodging his kiss so he'll get a mouthful of hair should he not stop in time. "To forget what happened out there." Fall and death presumably. Satiet draws back, a flippant gesture made to the pantry of liquor. "Have another drink, R'hin. Or visit your Igen whore. I'm not in the mood today." And R'hin's angry, too, letting her draw back, removing his grip with a suddenness. "No, not using you," he responds, sharply, teeth clenched. "I was trying to be -nice-, but since you're not in the mood--" he lifts a hand, waves it sharply, and reaches for his clothes, tugging them back on. "I'm pregnant." The angry culminates into this news, shared, spat out more like, though perceptive eyes might discern that in Satiet's pale gaze, she's not altogether displeased. Then, the certainty is followed with a quieter: "I think." R'hin's cloaked his anger around him, and he's already stalking towards the exit when the words freeze him in place. He turns, and stares, expression a multitude of emotions: shock, surprise, fear, uneasiness. "You're--" he pauses, collects his thoughts, "You -think-?" "Now," Satiet's hand spreads across her face, squishing her features wearily, and then moving slowly up to rake through her dark hair. "Do you want that second drink?" Making the assumptions he will, the goldrider moves back to the pantry, the crystal container tipped over to pour more of the amber liquid into a glass for the bronzerider. There's not the slightest of hestitations. "Yes," R'hin says firmly, striding back across towards her, pale eyes focused on her with a different sort of look - like he's reevaluating her entirely. The glass is handed over, pressed into his hand as Satiet tips her chin up to look flatly up at the bronzerider, challenge faint in her pale eyes. "I'm late." At any other time, the holdbred goldrider might flush prettily, this time she just lets the challenge die out of her eyes and exhale. "I'm never late," she adds, as if her feminine modesty needs any other reasons to be completely embarrassed. "Okay," R'hin takes that particular portion of news relatively calmly, though that may have something to do with the fact that he's just gulped down a generous portion of that amber liquid. A beat or two, then, steadily: "Is it mine?" "I should slap you for that," Satiet returns, the challenge fading out completely in favor of her typical icy bite. "Should you?" R'hin asks, mild. "It's yours," is Satiet's short return, refraining from slapping him, for now. "It cannot be anyone else's at this point." "Okay." There's, just maybe, the sound of relief in R'hin's voice, and it's warmer now. "Are you going to keep it?" The goldrider's mouth shapes oddly, quirked to one side and then swiftly moving to the other as she keeps her gaze steady on R'hin. "Do you need another drink?" she asks instead of answering, already poised to reach for the crystal container. "Yes, but later, after you answer," R'hin responds, pale, even eyes still on her. "You might need another drink before I answer," Satiet quips, voice droll rather than dry. Still, her hand drifts away from the bottle and instead moves to smooth her skirts down, shoulders rising, girding herself for the very short, perhaps shocking, answer: "Yes." There's a lengthy pause, and R'hin's hand reaches up as if to brush Satiet's hair, but stops just shy of it. "Okay," he repeats again, as if he can't come up with anything more articulate. "If I'm pregnant." A very important point to make, that Satiet states, hand held up to catch his hand before it reaches her hair. There's no attempt to twine her fingers in his, instead sliding smooth palm and the straight fingers of her smaller hand in order to flatten his. "You may wish to ask Tavrie. Or Josilina to lead Aurora if the golds in flight will still please the Weyrleader." Once again brilliant eyes watch the bronzerider, keen to any reactions he might have. "If," he echoes, indulgence and humor in his voice. "Who would you want to lead.. in your absence?" R'hin queries, his roughened fingers closing over hers, head tipped down so he can study her expression. One is a potential usurper, the other usurped. "I'll leave it to you to decide. I have no preference." Satiet meets his gaze brief, then diverts it to glance out of her weyr. "Josilina, if only because she's had experience, if you do not doubt her ambitions." "I don't doubt," R'hin sounds very certain, and even allows a curve of a smile to touch his lips. "Josilina will be fine." He exhales slowly, and when she starts to look away, bends as if to brush lips against her forehead, gentle. "Then fine. Josilina." Aiming for careless, Satiet only manages the barest hint of petulant as she states the former Weyrwoman's name, only mollified by the brush of lips to her forehead. "You agree then? That I should keep it." Even when having children, she's unable to help the note of disdain in the non-gender specific pronoun. "If that's what you want to do, then you should," comes R'hin's quiet response, though there's definite pleasure in his voice. "It might be nice." "Will it?" Dubious, Satiet's hand rests absently on her still flat tummy and then drops quickly, realization of what she does sinking in belatedly. Grimacing, she remarks, "I need a drink. But," a hand lifts to forestall arguments, "I won't, right now." |
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