Logs:Of Fate
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| RL Date: 17 April, 2006 |
| Who: Rathin, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 1, Month 5, Turn 7 (Interval 10) |
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| Your location's current time: 19:40 on day 1, month 5, Turn 57, of the Tenth Pass. It is a spring evening. You go up the stairs to Teonath's ledge. Teonath's Ledge(#12466RJs) This broad ledge has been smoothed down by turns of use and inclement weather. Half of it protrudes out from the wall, an arc of stone quarry glinting with rose quartz chips underneath, while the other half is covered by a high ceiling, large enough to shelter a dragon or two. There are two distinct depressions made by a large gold turns before, and a slightly smaller one not far off. Talon divots mark the very edge of the ledge. The ledge provides a view of the bowl and the activities below and due to its location, the middle of the queen's ledges, it's about a dragon length and a half from the ground. It faces the north and is positioned slightly to the west wall allowing it to get a large portion of the rose dusted sunrise in the mornings. Off the side, the rolling arc of ground that leads down towards a barely visible line of the crystalline blue lake provides relief to the bustle of the bowl. Stairs lead off to the side, carved into the wall and descending to the ground. Contents: Satiet Teonath Obvious exits: Inner Weyr Bowl Spring in High Reaches is hardly warm for those who aren't used to the weather, but for the rest, it's a time when less concealing attire comes out of the presses, and Satiet is no different. The gradients of her skirt flutter in the light breeze that blows through the bowl this evening, and while the telltale goose bumps along her bare arms indicate she's not ignorant of the cooler temperatures, it doesn't effect her duties, which at the moment include stroking the last dabble of oil along a slumbering queen's side. The distended belly that sneaks past her the bent set of her four limbs indicates a meal digesting, and the heavy drop of the pale queen's triple lids the onslaught of food coma. Humming lightly, the young woman seems unnaturally cheerful even as oil wends a slow path down her arm towards a stain already present along the sides of her camisole. Rathin's looking particularly dusty this evening, thanks, no doubt, to a particularly dull afternoon of stores inventory. He's made a vague effort to brush himself off, but patches of dust cling here and there to his clothes and hair. His jacket is absent, probably his own deference to the spring weather. It's no coincidence at all that the candidate is approaching Teonath's ledge not too long after the queen was seen hunting in the feeding grounds; his timing is deliberate. The scruffy-haired man climbs the ledge with quiet steps, slowing as he reaches the top, leaning against the wall's edge that marks the ledge space, studying the goldrider with a grin that becomes a smirk as he murmurs in a low voice, "Perhaps you should save some of that oil for your weyrmate... wherever he may be." The telltale signs of an initial bristle show in the fading out of her song and the sudden stiffening of her shoulders that, too late, relax in an attempt mask her true emotions. With deliberate slowness to her movements, Satiet bends to pick a oil-soaked towel from the ground, hands patting in an absentminded fashion to find a dryer spot. "This is my ledge," the weyrwoman notes as mildly as her cool voice will allow, "And if you've trekked all the way here to irritate me, you're sorely mistaken, candidate." Her slender brows arc higher and the glance she favors Rathin with is anything but warm. Pale, amused eyes study the goldrider for a moment more, as if Rathin is enjoying the reaction, before a quick grimace follows, and a slow exhale of breath as if controlling himself. "Force of habit," he says, his tone soothing - not quite an apology but somewhere in the same ballpark, at least. "You'll notice," he gestures deliberately at the ground, "Technically I haven't crossed over onto your ledge. I'm on your ramp, maybe. Are you going to turn away a candidate in need, lady of the spires?" His tone may be mocking, but there's something in his demeanor, the tenseness of his posture, that suggests there's at least a serious purpose lurking in the question. Satiet's "Don't call me that," is spoken as abruptly as the turn of her shoulders again towards her dragon. In an attempt to release some of that pent up bristling in a productive way, the dry hands run over oily hide once more in aimless circles. Despite the appearance of sleep, there's a soothing quality in the cadence of Teonath's breathing that the rider draws off of liberally, and after several moments of silence where her hands work over patches already oiled again in a faint-fingered massage, the incline of her head indicates assent, vocalized moments later by a quiet, if still distantly spoken remark, "There's another towel just within my weyr if you'd be so kind as to get it for me." "Why not?" Rathin's query is genuinely curious, head tilted as he studies the young woman. "This is the Weyr of the seven spires; you are a lady of it, are you not? It seems apt." Of course, it could very well reference the story he once told her in the orchards of Nabol as well. His gaze drifts past towards Teonath, though his attention is only to ensure the deep rhythms of the gold dragon's sleep continues uninterrupted. His eyes are drawn back to Satiet, and with a bow, and an echo of the words he last spoke to her: "As you command," he steps in to the weyr to retrieve the towel. Naturally, while he's there, he pauses long enough to study what he can see of the room, before returning to the ledge, stepping close enough to offer the towel to her. "Because I am not a lady. Lady implies status which I don't claim." There's a snarky little pause, and a knowing little smirk that dwells on the implications of her ill-thought out words. Clarifying, the unusually sweet-tempered voice adds, "Lady implies Blood, of which, I have no claim, and even if I did, Teonath would have absolved me of that." Satiet waits to speak further until the young man's returned, and turns finally from administrating to her dragon's needs, startling slightly at Rathin's proximity. Within her weyr, the decoration is oddly feminine, little trinkets decorating a low hearth and though sparsely furnished, a large table and liquor cabinet are immediately visible. "As I command?" A pause as she recollects herself and claims the towel to wipe off her hands. "Are you so willing to comply with my wishes, Rathin?" "Yet you are a goldrider of a Weyr. One day," Rathin gestures grandly, hands held up and outwards, "All this will be yours! You may not be a -Lady-," the slight emphasis adds the capital to that, "But you definitely are," his voice drops to a low whisper, intimate, "A lady, Satiet of High Reaches." His hands lower as a smile springs up at Satiet's question. His positioning is deliberate, close to the young woman, but leaving her between himself and Teonath, as if he doesn't want to stand closer to the dragon than is necessary. "Willing? I wouldn't go -quite- that far. Yet you make demands as if you -are- the Lady of the Weyr, and it would be unseemingly of me refuse, no?" Which doesn't quite answer her question, but then that, too, is likely deliberate. "One day," Satiet muses over that blithe statement, ignoring the grand gesture that accompanies it, and studies the towel in her hands. "You do realize Weyrleadership is in the fate and whims of a dragon's mating cycle, and that Josilina, despite the turns she has on me, is still fairly young?" But the thought itself is appealing enough that a tiny smile clefts unwaveringly in the corner of the young woman's mouth, and no matter how solemn she attempts to be, it remains for the perceptive to suss out. The towel switches hands a few times and briskly, she begins to speak, "I make no demands of you. I made a request, which you complied with. I would not have punished you had you not complied as I am capable of getting my own towels. It was," she flashes the young man an overly sweet smile, betraying that she is equally capable of turning on the charm as he is when she deigns, "Interesting to see that you did comply, however." "True. And yet if I were a betting man--" Rathin pauses, his train of thought thrown off for a moment, "--I would say you're ambitious, and you're very used to getting what you want. Is that not right?" He ducks his head a little, purposeful, so that he can catch that little smile, and let her know that he's seen it as well. Straightening, his smile widens even more - he's certainly not immune to the charm she turns on, and he seems to enjoy being on the receiving end of it. "As I said, I tend to get distracted by pretty things. A shallow fault of mine, I confess." His eyes drop, following the towel, and without warning, he reaches out to snag the long end of it when Satiet's got a hold on the other end, giving it a light tug. It's not overly forceful, merely designed to pull her off balance in the direction of the pull - namely, himself. Used to getting her way; it's clear enough in her smug expression that there are no words required to answer his assessment. Used to getting her way, it's also clear she's unused to people taking advantage of a situation and catching her off guard on her own turf and while she's silent throughout his words, allowing his flattery to wash over her, the tug of the towel garners the desired reaction, off-balance footing causing her to instinctively tug back on the towel with one hand, the other reaching blindly forward for something to balance against, which unsurprisingly becomes Rathin, and should he not move, her slim hand finds his chest. "Don't," Satiet exhales with brilliant eyes the flash with feigned anger up at the candidate, "Let your distraction get the better of you candidate." Rathin, since he was expecting it, doesn't move, and indeed his lips are quirked as he looks down at the goldrider. "You demand that I not be distracted, and yet at the same time you have your hand on my chest. Any man would be befuddled by the mixed signals you give, Satiet of High Reaches." His words are a mere whisper, since there's really no need to speak any louder than that, yet they convey his lingering amusement easily enough. His head tips, voice abruptly solemn, changing tack without warning: "Will you miss me when I'm gone, lady of the spires?" "And some," the young woman returns archly, a brow hitching high along her brow as her gaze cuts down to catch a glimpse of her hand on his chest, and then up again to seek out Rathin's gaze. A slow smile curves, less smug but still aware of some semblance of an upperhand, before her hand presses in gently, with practiced ease. "And where will you be going, Rathin of the traders? Gone like the careless breeze traders seem prone towards?" Satiet presses forward, despite the fact she doesn't require his assistance to balance any longer, and the sultry inflection of low mocking underlines her silken alto. Rathin's hand, still holding onto the other edge of the towel, tightens a little in a deliberate effort to draw her closer. His gaze is fixed firmly on her eyes, as if he can't look away. "Indeed, Satiet of High Reaches." His tone is deliberately light, though not enough to mask the faintly mocking tones in his voice, "A dragonrider's life is not for me; that much has been made clear to me in my time here." A low laugh, and his voice alters slightly, as if mimicking someone else: "I would not die for it, and as a consequence I am unworthy." There's a pause as the weyrwoman digests his words, though the distraction of light blue eyes fixated on hers causes the pause to elongate. Unable to look away, it's only a blink that finally allows her the space of mind to pull back, attempting to extricate herself from his proximity. And it's then that the full weight of Rathin's words sink in, an unladylike snort of dismissal accompanying her two steps backwards. "Die for it? Die to be a dragonrider? And you think that because you do not wish to die to be a dragonrider, you aren't worthy?" He allows the withdrawal, letting the towel fall from his grasp, though Rathin's eyes continue to remain fixed on Satiet. "I? -I- do not believe it, but there are a number amongst you who do. It is not something I have dreamed wanting to do of every day of my life; it is not something that consumes me and keeps me awake, and it is not something I would willing shed blood over." Mocking disbelief threads his tones, "I wonder if you could say the same, Satiet of High Reaches?" brows lift as he studies her quizzically for a moment. A lengthy pause follows, perhaps to give her room to respond, but perhaps just to compose himself; it is he who turns away now, stepping across the ledge, placing his feet deliberately at the edge, where little but a stiff breeze might push him over. His voice is hard: "I feel no loyalty to this place. I would not have it forced on me." "There are benefits to owing your allegiance to an area, whether it is meant or not. There are benefits," Satiet responds neutrally, deliberate in not seeking out Rathin's eyes once more. "To be had for those you do owe your loyalties to." Instead, her head cants from side to side before finally settling on the pale glimmer of gold out of the corner of her eyes and then swinging, once her peripheral visions ascertained the candidate's position, back to study his back. "Would I have shed blood to have been a dragonrider? No. Is what you ask why I chose to accept Search, or are you merely fishing for ammunition to use in your subtle mockery of me? Your tongue," the raven-haired woman takes a few steps forward before stopping completely, "Is far too glib for your own good." "You mean power, Satiet of High Reaches? It is well within your grasp, indeed. Impressing suits you well, despite your apparent lack of commitment to the cause." Rathin seems stiff of posture, and his words hold a thread of anger, as if turning his back on her has given him the illusion of remoteness, but not the actuality. "I see no good odds in allowing a dragon to choose my fate - when one of your own riders has all but confessed that the dragons may well choose incorrectly." There's a lengthy pause, and his words become just as controlled as hers are, "Perhaps both I ask for both reasons. Why settle for one reason when any number of nefarious motives could be applied?" "Perhaps those who choose to Stand," the pause that ensues in between her comment is filled by the pace of bare feet to the ledge's surface, slapping faintly with the sound of skin to stone. Drawing close slowly, the scent Satiet favors a delicate infusion of lavender and vanilla wafts on another spring breeze, she stands as near Rathin without brushing shoulders with him, and without sparing him a look - no that's designated towards the glimmer of lake across the vast expanse of the bowl - she continues, "Fall into a myriad of categories. Those whose prior life gives them little to look forward to that anything would be better. Those blinded by the harper tales of dragonkind and what they stand for; the would-be heroes of Pern who are fated to fall hard once reality sits in. And those who still seek something, despite the restless nature of their feet. Dragons are never wrong, and what may seem like the whimsy of fate is," a faint smile emerges, complete confidence in her own position in life now, "I think, meant. It will happen one way or the other. You have doubts that you're worthy of such a high, distinctive honor?" Mocking, despite her best intentions, finds its way laid in thick in the near-whisper murmur of her voice. Rathin's arms are folded across his chest, an unconsciously defensive posture. He doesn't turn to look at Satiet, though is undoubtedly aware of her nearness. "Dragons are never wrong?" he echoes her tone deliberately, "Can you tell me with absolute truth and belief there is -no- rider you think incompetent? No rider you think should never have stepped foot on the hatching sands? No rider you think should've Impressed a different dragon - perhaps a green instead of a gold? A blue instead of a bronze?" His jaw clenches, and he visibly stiffens at her mocking tones. He is angry, abruptly, but it is more than that: it is like a simmering rage, curbed for the moment, but barely. His voice is low, intense, fuelled by it, swathed in it. "I -know- I'm not worthy, Satiet of High Reaches, but that is not why I defer." "Shalyn?" Satiet returns knowingly, and doesn't even wait a beat for the candidate to respond. "Whether they are incompetent or not is of little consequence. As parents are gifted with children that they may consider lacking or the wrong gender, there are dragons that are suited to the riders they Impress to. Whether I believe they are suited to being a dragonrider or not isn't something I tend to dwell on. I don't enjoy dwelling on things beyond my contr-." His anger is tangible, felt through the ground and in the sliver of air space between them, and the goldrider is all too aware, if belated, in her sudden silence. A gentle woman might comfort. A kindhearted person might step back in fear or out of some thoughtful gesture. But Satiet only initially spares the smoldering man at her side the briefest of looks, judging the situation in a split second, and then pivoting at her shoulders with her opposite hand crossing across her torso and then his to reach for his chin, the grip of two fingers firm should he not flinch away. Her query is simple, devoid of the cold distance prevalent, emotionless in its flatness but somehow closer to her core being. "Why?" The look Rathin bestows on Satiet as she turns his chin towards her is not kind; it is full of simmering anger, and it clouds his eyes and his face both. A less-strong-willed person would shy away from a look like that. "Why? What do you persist?" he growls at her, reaching for her wrist with the intention of pulling her fingers away, but her purpose is filled just the same; his attention is on her. His look is long, and the anger doesn't lessen, but he does seem to gain some measure of control in the face of her emotionless stance. When he answers, a long time in coming, his voice is quiet, but no less intense for all that. "I would not have my fate decided by another. Be it another person, or be it a dragon, anything. I made that mistake once, and I will not again." The brilliant blue of Satiet's eyes don't falter this time as they lift up, holding steady to the anger that shadows his eyes. The respect that glimmers there strengthens the longer her eyes remain fixed, and obliging, there's no resistance when Rathin pulls her fingers. However, a wince flickers, unsteadying her resolve, in light of the pain at her wrist. "Then you're a fool," she returns, moving her hand and arm swiftly to try and grab hold of his wrist in kind, the force of a trained athlete found in the toned muscles of her arm and the surprisingly, if she grabs hold, grip of her fingers. "If you believe all decisions in your life are made by yourself, that you can control every aspect of your life with decisions -you- make. Perhaps you don't want to submit yourself to the scrutiny of an unknown entity, just as you use that sly humor of yours to keep others at bay." A beat ensues before her gaze hardens and she forces herself closer so she's a breadth away from the candidate's larger frame, face tilted back so she gets more of a view than Rathin's chest, and in a voice equally as quiet, she breathes out, "I will not keep a candidate here against his or her will, I will not change the mind of someone who's already intent on believing a certain path. But, Rathin," the name becomes her own in the roll of the 'r' along her tongue, "It would be a pity should a dragon as strong as your own mind not find you on the Sands come hatching day. You'd be marvelous to lead with some day." It's that wince that pulls him up short, and Rathin's grip eases off as he continues to scramble for control of his anger. Her grab for his wrist takes him by surprise, and he doesn't even have time to react, gritting his teeth briefly at the sudden strength of her grip. "Then I'm a fool," he agrees in a low whisper, his eyes on hers again, the anger still present, but coiled, waiting. He is silent throughout her speech, exhaling as she steps closer, still watching her as if unable to look away. Quiet, mocking laughter follows her latter words, though even that, too, fades into silence after a moment, and he's still staring. Then, abruptly, he leans forward as if he means to kiss her, but at the last moment stops just shy, instead bending down towards her ear, voice barely audible: "I thought you already had your Weyrleader picked out, Satiet of High Reaches?" Slowly, those pale eyes lid, exalting in the feel of unmoving eyes on her and the awareness that he is not looking away for whatever reason. The grip of her fingers turns lax and as he turns to whisper in her ear, his words draw out a cleverly sly curve on her lips. When he goes silent, Satiet leans up, tiptoes on bare feet and his lowered head barely allowing her to brush her lips and subsequently the warmth of her breath to his ear in a mirror of his actions, "You're a fool, if you believe one man can captivate me for long. Stay," there's very little substance in that breathy voice, and more force in the faint dance of fingers to Rathin's wrist, "The lady of the spires requests that you do." The tenseness has faded from his shoulders, the sense of simmering anger dissipating altogether. Rathin breathes deeply, taking in that scent of lavender and vanilla, his other hand brushing ever so lightly down her spine, against the fabric of her camisole. "Difficult to refuse such a request." And yet he does not immediately accept, and more silence follows as he considers it. Then, drawing back enough so he can meet her gaze once more, he says, "Since you are so certain of yourself, Satiet of High Reaches, why don't we make a bet? If I should Impress a strong dragon, as you say - let's say a bronze for completeness' sake - then you owe me. You owe me one, honest, nothing-held-back answer to one question of my choice, whenever I choose to ask it." The familiar curve of sly smile is back again as he awaits her response. Silent, the slight woman steps back away one tiny step from the pseudo embrace that the proximity of their bodies may seem to imply. Her fingers too, after a while, fall to her side. Lopsided, her smirk in kind pulls in an inadvertent mirror of his slyness, and with a demure lowering of lashes and a faint incline of her chin, her assent to this bet is granted. "But," she warns vocally, "Should you Impress, the last thing on your mind will be a question to ask of me. A stipulation then, candidate?" With that one step of withdrawal, Rathin's hand slides along her back, her waist, then drops away. His gaze, however, remains fixated on her. A quiet laugh, disagreement with her assessment: "I wouldn't be that certain, lady of the spires." He tilts his head, before tipping it forward slightly in curiosity, his eyes flickering across her face as if to try and read her intent. "Of course. You have the right, after all, to specify what happens should I lose." "My only stipulation," Satiet's finger lifts, piercing at the night sky, and then turns to prod with an unlikely lightness at Rathin's shoulder, "The question I answer will be for your ears only and not for others. You will not ask me your question in front of others. It is your bet, your reward, and yours alone." The towel held lax in the, till now, useless hand draws up further and is then tossed in a low arc towards her weyr, her aim off given her unseeing throw. "I have no specifications should you lose." Confidence lifts the sharp chin, settling the raven waves of her dark hair backwards. The unsubtle arrogance that courses through the slight frame draws her small height up to seem taller than she is. "Because it won't happen." Serious all of a sudden, Rathin answers, "That was a given. My intent was never to embarrass you." He smiles, amends, "Not in this instance, at any rate." Her certainty and arrogance earns a sharp, dry laugh from the erstwhile trader. "Lady luck has a strong sense of irony, Satiet of High Reaches. You'd do well to remember that. Very well, then - should I lose, I will do as my lady commands for a day, since she seems to enjoy giving orders and having them carried out." He takes a step back, and sketches a bow, though light blue eyes still remain on Satiet as he does so. Where once those eyes may have elicited discomfort, now she basks, though not overtly. There are subtle differences in the carry of her slight shoulders, the seeming careless hold of her bare arms at her side, and the sidelong way in which Satiet studies the man. And silent still is her dismissal of the candidate, the tacit turn of her shoulders, though continued lingering look that follows Rathin regardless of where her body might be facing, leading her back to her weyr. On the way, she leans forward to scoop the discarded towel, this action requiring her to turn her pale, ice eyes away, and disappears beyond the open tapestry to her weyr. Those pale blue eyes have missed little, and they also take in those subtle changes, eliciting a small, almost guarded smile from Rathin. Once dismissed, however, he no longer watches her, his mind on other matters; he departs the ledge and proceeds down the ramp without a backwards look. You go down the stairs towards the bowl. |
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