Logs:Of Motivations
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| RL Date: 25 September, 2006 |
| Who: Satiet, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Teonath's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 3, Turn 9 (Interval 10) |
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| You go up the stairs to Teonath's ledge. Teonath's Ledge 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: Teonath(#223JOQaep) Obvious exits: Inner Weyr Bowl It is very early morning, Rukbat not high enough to have burnt off the chill in the air as yet. Most of the Weyr still lies asleep, and it is for that very reason that R'hin - new Weyrleader - makes his way easily across the bowl, and up Teonath's ledge. It's not the first time he's made such early morning calls to accompany the weyrwoman on her morning run. "Teonath," R'hin's voice is low, focused on the gold, "Yours is inside?" he pauses on the threshold, as ever aware of, and respectful of the queen's presence. The crisp morning finds Teonath awake, an aura of mocking bemusement descended onto her enigmatic face. Large eyes, wise beyond their years in a way only a dragon could accomplish, fix onto the shape that moves across the bowl, follows it up the steps to her ledge, and pauses, head tilted, to -watch- the new Weyrleader. In the wisdom lies a respect that pierces through the mocking, and with a downward curve of her neck, tacit deference, the motion invites him within, though is quickly accompanied by a low, singsongy rumble: Good luck. A cant of head bespeaks R'hin bemusement at Teonath's expression, finding it difficult at the best of times to interpret draconic emotions. With a half bow, he passes by the queen inside. You stroll into the inner weyr. Satiet and Teonath'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 The inside weyr is still, a bit too calm. Nothing is truly out of place midst Satiet's anal neatness, the table has careful stacks of work, the furniture is neat and pushed in where it should be: chairs under tables, cot neatly made. The hearth is quiet, however, and a trail near the hearth to the bedroom is littered with the weyrwoman's attire from the day before, ending with just a sliver of pink underpants visible just beneath the curtain to the sectioned off bed area. The still calm is broken seconds later by a wretched groan from behind that pastel yellow curtain, the sound of dry heaving is punctuated by another groan, muffled this time presumably beneath pillows or large comforters. The strewn clothing is what catches R'hin's pale eyes first, wandering over them with possessive amusement, following in their wake as if they were a trail of breadcrumbs, a low, knowing laugh elicited by the color of her undergarments. If he ever showed any hesitancy about entering her bedchambers, he's long past it, striding in to view the groaning pile beneath the sheets. "You are a piece of work, Satiet," his voice curling about that name with over familiarity, "-I- get lumped with your bastard of a work-in-progress Weyr, and -you're- the one lolling about in bed. C'mon, time for a run." It seems he's not yet gleaned the true nature of the goldrider's... ailment. Only a few curls are visible, as a pillow is smashed over her head and her covers are pulled up past her shoulders, dark and tangled as they lay on her pale rose covers. She's awake, the groans alone are enough to betray that, but soon, Satiet follows that with a guttural and very childishly petulant, "G'way." Petulant does very little to dissuade R'hin, and in fact inclines him to come closer, brow furrowed with a faint touch of concern that disappears as pale eyes flicker over her. "You're... you're hung over!" He states, taken aback for a beat, before it's followed by hearty (and loud) laughter. "Oh, ho, the great weyrwoman, undone. And I missed it. Who were you with? I must hear of this!" Her discomfort is forgotten for the moment, though he is mindful enough to rifle through her wardrobe and extract a robe for her - pale pink. He can't see, no one can, but there's a flinch that creases across Satiet's face at the volume of his laughter which is then physically shown by the forceful burrowing of herself further into her bed. The heavy scent of whiskey hangs in the air in her immediate proximity, and a telltale bottleneck peeks out from beneath the weyrwoman's bed, hard to spot until someone is practically on top of it. "Go be Weyrleaderly or somethi-," a long pause, where her shoulders hunch upward and an initially quick movement slows as the goldrider curls onto her side, deliberately not facing R'hin. "G'way." The laughter ceases as abruptly as if she'd slapped him, R'hin's reaction to his new position one of abrupt anger. "Shards, woman," he growls, striding across the bed to fling the robe on top of the covers, accidentally kicking the bottle with a loud thunk as it hits the wall under the bed. A beat or two, as he visibly controls himself, fingers still clenched into fists. "I'm -not- going away. We need to talk. -I-," a beat, and a hint of uneasy vulnerability.. maybe even deliberately dangled, but no less real for all that, "--need to talk. I'll get you some food you can eat. And then we'll talk." Spinning on a heel, he moves for the door. It's not the vulnerability or his offer of food that causes her to spin about in her bed. It's the growling and the bottle being hit in conjunction that elicits movement, a bit too quick, for as he's spinning and headed for the door, the completely hung over woman let's loose her ails, spewing off the side of her bed, shuddering, then releasing again before this one is concluded with a mortified groan and further burial of her slight frame beneath her covers. Obviously, everything will have to be washed at some point. Soon. R'hin's gone for a while, and Teonath, if inquired, could inform her rider that he's headed for the living cavern, long enough for any privacy if required. When he returns, he's carrying a pitcher of water, some plain fruits and bread - food with little smell that goes down easily enough. There's also the acrid scent of some herbal mixture, not nausea inducing but unpleasant just the same. The bronzerider sets everything down, grimacing briefly at the mess but apparently undaunted by it, kneeling on the bed to proffer the small cup. "Drink this. It tastes awful, but it will at least keep what's inside you inside." Perhaps she's resigned herself to her fate, that the new Weyrleader will return as promised, or some sense of preservation of pride forces her to at least shed the covers and draw the robe on over her arms. Mortification, however, is hard to overcome. When R'hin returns, Satiet is found on the other side of her bed, away from the mess, on her side with her head rested on her curled arm and the pale pink sleeve. Pretty features look haggard and when the scents of what R'hin brings back is noticed before the bronzerider's eventual return to her bedroom, a pale green sickness discolors her cheeks. "I feel... I feel like shit," she exhales, but obediently props herself up to bring her lips, rather than her hands, to the cup he offers. "Of course you do," R'hin, unsympathetic in words, is nevertheless careful as he crouches beside her to hold the cup to her lips, one hand against her shoulder to help brace her. "And yesterday, you felt nothing. Was it worth it?" He remains there even as she takes the liquid, pale eyes travelling over her, cooly assessing as he takes in the young woman at her worst. If his voice, the confession he made, was vulnerable, Satiet's vulnerability hits a range of levels. Physically, she's a mess, allowing him to brace her up like an invalid. Emotionally, the paleness of her blue eyes are, for once, devoid of their striking fire and just look a bit washed out. The closer the herbal concoction comes to irritate her delicate senses, the further the greenness travels, but with deliberate care not to heave all over him, she leans forward to sip once and slowly tips her head back so that his feeding hand can follow and allow the drink to slide down easy. When she comes up for air, "Vile," is all she can manage, followed a beat later by a shake of her head. "Yes. No. I don't know." The back of her hand dabs at her mouth before she has the strength to return his question, "Was it worth it?" "Very much so," R'hin agrees, with the air of one who has had the stomach the liquid many a time. "It'll settle your stomach in a little while. Just sit still," he advises in a quieter voice, abruptly deferent now to her delicate sensibilities. Judging by the thin line of his mouth, he's not particular at ease seeing her in such a state, moving around enough that she can lean back against him, should she choose. There's no sense of hesitancy in his answer to her question: "No." A beat, then, "This could destroy everything we've worked for." Surprisingly, the seeming obedience lingers as Satiet remains still. "Is that all you can think of?" asks the slight woman a moment later. "Your plans?" Acidity is devoid in her alto, though she moves enough to slant him a glance. Tenseness rides the lines of R'hin's body, and Satiet knows him well enough to know that it bespeaks coiled anger. "And what else," he growls, "Should I think of? Is that not what drove you to the bottle? Lhiannonth has, once more, denied Teonath the opportunity to be Senior." The stillness is broken, Satiet's hands coming up to press at her temples and then cover her eyes. Slim hands slide down over her nose and then mouth before falling back to the top of her covers. Scornfully, she retorts, "You don't know what drove me to the bottle. Yes. Yes, it was worth it to feel nothing. I-..." The young woman's mouth works like a fish's and she uses the support of R'hin's body to try and push herself off the bed. "I need air." R'hin's eyes narrow at that scornful tone, neither hindering nor helping the weyrwoman to rise. "Mmm. Or," malicious anger sparks the words, "Was it the thought of Josilina and I tangled beneath the sheets, under the passion borne of a dragon's coupling?" Eyes half-lid as if in remembrance, a curl of lips rising unbidden. Stumbly steps take Satiet as far as the archway to the outer common room, and there she stops, her back finding support along the wall. With her body in the bedchambers, only face pokes out between the curtains to inhale deeply, so when her head draws back into the room, the spring chill outside could account for the high rise of color on her cheeks. "I remember asking you to go away. Distinctly. I'm sure I did," she rambles to herself, a minute difference in volume making the latter words directed at the bronzerider. "I drink because I enjoy drinking, sir. I'm sure this isn't news to you. Not news at all." R'hin turns slightly to grab one of the pillows, propping it up against the wall and leaning against it comfortably. He reaches for some of the grapes from the bowl at the bedside table, munching on them, though pale eyes remain fixed on Satiet's form. "Will you throw me from your bed," a hand lifts to gesture, "So readily now that I am Weyrleader? You kept Xalerth's well past his due." Every so often, Satiet's head disappears outside that curtain, returning only after several breaths, and while she's looking remarkably better, a certain queasiness reigns uneasily over her slight, shoulder-hunched frame. To combat this, the young woman tips her head back, resting against the wall and eyes the ceiling instead of meeting R'hin's pale gaze. "I did not know my personal affairs would be the subject of a Weyrleader's curiosity, sir." With color to her cheeks also comes with it some sense of stringing words together, though her tongue still lacks its distinct sharpness. "You don't know a thing about B'rakis." Another grape is consumed, though pale eyes don't waver from the slender woman's form. "A Weyrleader's curiosity encompasses the entire Weyr. And especially it's weyrwomen." R'hin's voice is cool, politely formal as if in instinctive response to her words, and that title. "You're right," he allows as he swings feet off the bed, approaching Satiet. "I know nothing about B'rakis. But I know -you-." "Then what-," with her gaze to the ceiling and her periphery vision shot, her words stop short when her head tips back down to find R'hin close. Blinking owlishly, unprepared for any sort of proximity between herself and the new-made Weyrleader, Satiet just stares and presses herself all the closer to her wall. Swallow. "Can you not eat in front of me? Not now, please, not now." The resulting silence is quickly filled by a completion of her thoughts aloud, "What do you know of me and past dues?" Since she claims the doorway, R'hin leans against the bedroom side of the wall, one hand stretching up above his head, allowing a beat or two to pass in silence. Voice is whisper-soft, intimate: "As you command, lady of the spires." The phrase, spoken a number of times before, earns a twitch of lips. His hand reaches out to brush some of the curls of the hair back from her forehead. "I know one destined to be a fisherman's wife can dream of being Weyrwoman. And," a hint of forceful intensity, as if by sheer will he can make it so, "She will be." Reflexive movements cause her face to follow the caress of his hand in her hair. The touch in combination with the sudden softness, the oft-heard intimate possessiveness in his inflection elicits a dampness to her eyes that's quickly, and quite angrily, blinked away. "If you tell -anyone- about this, I swear, I'll... I'll kill you." But it's an empty threat at best, only reinforced by a glower that shadows her eyes, dark and glistening with a sliver of hope for what the force of his will promises. Indulgent smile meets the empty threat, R'hin's voice still low, pale eyes fixed on her with that heavy intensity. "I would never bring you low, Satiet of High Reaches, nor allow someone else to. You will be above everyone. You must be... publicly." The last concession is accompanied by a slight lean of his body, bringing head close enough to hears to brush lips against her forehead. As he gets too close, one knee lifts, bending so that her foot rests against the wall to act as a buffer before his body overwhelms hers. Self-preservation, as always. But the kiss, the kiss Satiet accepts with closed eyes, her head bending in what might appear as deference to the bronzerider's wishes. "Until then, you will be her Weyrleader." Though jealousy streaks thin in the statement, in the end it's her decision: a compelling command made of him that carries in it the strength of acceptance and her own resolve beneath the layers of liquor haze. The gentle press of lips is all that R'hin asks, straightening after a moment, eyes still fixed on the goldrider. Lips thin noticeably at her words. "Until then," he echoes, sharply. That he is unhappy - angry is more apt - at the situation is clear, but the dry words nonetheless fall from his lips, "It's as you wished it, my lady." Still stripped of most of her defenses, Satiet is still perceptive enough to be aware of that renewed anger, but it is because she lacks her defenses that her hand can come up to attempt to sooth in backhanded caresses R'hin's cheeks. Pale eyes glitter brilliantly, the dullness having been shed in the past few minutes and the effects of herbs settling nicely in her stomach, and rests on R'hin. Genuine, for its hard to imagine Satiet being otherwise open with such emotion, the study she fixates on the new Weyrleader is lingering and longing. "Thank you for your concerns, sir. For the food and-," a helpless gesture attempts to encompass the drink, his overlooking of many little things within his morning visit. "I'm sure you have other things, important things, to tend to, sir." A faint exhale marks R'hin's acceptance of that caress, half-lidded eyes never wavering from Satiet's form, though his head turns slightly to press against the skin of her hand. "I have important things to tend to," he agrees, "And you were at the top of the list." It's blatant flattery, but not untrue for all that. "I expect," the words are less order, more amused observation, "To find you fit and ready for an early morning jog tomorrow, for -that- I do not plan to give up, your... indulgences... aside." His body shifts, at first making it seem like he's moving towards her, but his goal is the doorway, apt to brush past her as he moves through it. While he speaks and moves, Satiet is still, allowing her hand to be pressed in to, accepting of what he says (flattery as well as amused observation), and of the brush past, where his body grazes lightly across hers. What strength it must have taken her to stay standing is found only after he's left her bedchamber -- /after/ she's released it to sink to the ground. Only after she's certain he's out of earshot, does a low groan emit again and her forehead finds rest against her bent knees. Meanwhile, R'hin takes a little extra time to replace the flowers on the table with fresh ones, setting a pot of klah to brewing before he departs. A tip of head is his acknowledgement of Teonath has he passes the queen, headed for his own ledge - now a quick walk across the bowl. |
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