Logs:Of Power Offered and Taken
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 19 July, 2006 |
| Who: R'hin, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Fine Sand Beach, Shipfish Island |
| When: Day 6, Month 6, Turn 8 (Interval 10) |
  |
| Your location's current time: 10:19 on day 6, month 6, Turn 58, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer morning. Leiventh> Teonath senses that Leiventh's crimson tones are full of curiosity, tendrils reaching out in your direction. « Mine is curious about where yours is. He wishes to speak with her. » There's a lazy haze in the soft-spoken thrum of Teonath's mind, blue clouds of lace enveloping the tightly controlled thoughts. Through this cloud, streaks of a warm sun filter out with flickering images of fine white sands and fabled shipfish in the distance coasting along southern waters. Slowly, the image refines, hazier lines turning solid to provide the bronze with something to between to. Leiventh> Teonath senses that Leiventh listens, appreciatively, reflecting the image back as it sharpens enough to provide a suitable visualization. « We come, » he thrums in response. You suddenly emerge... Sky Above Shipfish Island Below you lies a small, yet extremely distinctive island that rises steeply in altitude from north to south. The terrain varies from rocks, to grassy meadow, to sand dunes, to thick forest and then to beach, and soaring high overhead you can already make out a few places that might be open enough for a landing. The ocean glitters to all sides around the island, disrupted only by the foam of a waterfall that falls from the southern cliff. From this vantage point the ancient volcano seems almost enchanting. A beach covered in white sands faces the ocean to the east. Bordering the beach is a lush growth of trees, with yellow flowers blooming on the tops, resembling the stars in the early morning sky. The endless summer nooning lazes along neath a sky unencumbered by cloud. From here you can see how the volcano's bowl protects the island on the northern, southern and western sides. The rocky, steep and forested nature of most of the island leaves only a few places where a dragon could easily land. Obvious exits: Narrow Beach with Dock Wide Beach Forest Clearing Bay » Leiventh emerges from Between with a blast of cold air! You dive down towards the strip of sand facing the bay. You vault down Leiventh's side to the ground, using his foreleg as a step. Shipfish Island - Fine Sand Beach Tall, slim-trunked trees creep through the sandy soil almost down to the beachfront, where slender sea grasses and bright green withies populate the narrow stretch of sand. The warm breeze carries a whisper of southern clime to your senses as you stroll along the oceanside. The sand here is perfectly fine and smooth, unmarred by brush or rocks. Driftwood lies scattered randomly across the shore, worn smooth and bleached by the sun, and every so often a small seabird will dodge the wavelets in its pursuit of prey. Hot summer afternoon slips away beneath the clear arch of the sky. A small, winding, and almost grown-over path leads away to the west into the dense forest, while to the south the beach grows rocky, hiding all manners of almost inaccesible nooks and crevices within its stony, sea-worn grasp. +view is available here. Contents: Leiventh Satiet Teonath Obvious exits: Stone Shelter Shale Beach Overgrown Path Finding Teonath from the skies is a matter of any simple glance down, as the queen's large bulk has situated itself in one of the more private coves. Lazing where the lap of the ocean's water meets the pristine shores, the semblance of sleep seems to shroud the wheaten frame with the rhythmic rise and fall of her spine. Not far from where the gold reposes is Satiet, her back to a rose-hued towel, pale eyes shut against the sun, and the spill of her raven hair distinctive against white sands. In a voice far removed from the clipped tones granted most at the Reaches, a low murmur exhales throatily, as if working past sun-induced laziness to force itself out, "Mmmm, some wing shade in a bit, Teo?" High over the island's warm beaches, a bronze appears from between, little more than a dot at first. The dragon spirals once, then rapidly descends with a tucking of wings, resolving itself into the familiar, distinctive shade of cinnamon bronze and hook-nose that can only be Leiventh. With a low rumble of greeting to Teonath, the bronze sets down a short distance away, kicking up only a little bit of sand with his landing. "Ah," R'hin breathes, as he slides down to the ground, "I see my lady of the spires is hard at work." His low, familiar teasing is accompanied by intent scrutiny, pale eyes moving over Satiet's form unabashedly, before he turns towards Leiventh's saddlebags to retrieve something. The bronze's initial descent is unnoticed by the rider and the dragon betrays nothing, as typical, to her aloof other half. Leiventh's rumble is returned with a languid flick of Teonath's tail that sends a playfully low wave along the shore to where he's landed, and only once such a greeting is made does the queen lift two sets of her triple lids to spare the cinnamon-touched dragon a narrowed study. With the peace of her cove privacy shattered, the young weyrwoman has several choices and elects to follow the course requiring as little of her moving or speaking: pretending Leiventh never landed until necessity, in the form of R'hin's greeting, dictates she respond with a drop of her chin and the slow opening of pale, glittering eyes. No words are required as her flat gaze says it all - annoyance, frustration, as well as a thread of reluctance - as it takes in the bronzerider. Upon catching his scrutiny, a flush that's not entirely sun-induced claims the hollow of her throat, and a discomforted movement readjusts the thin folds of her white dress. If anything, the sharply amused glitter of R'hin's gaze hints that he's well-pleased at the reaction his arrival receives from the young goldrider. Divesting himself of his flying gear, he moves towards Satiet with hands behind his back. "I come bearing gifts! Well, -a- gift." Hands held out to either side for viewing, he holds a bottle of Benden in one hand, and a pair of glasses in the other. "I figured since I was at Benden the other day I ought to sample the wine. The white's just amazing. Goes down a treat. Care to try a sample?" he queries, barely even waiting for her assent before he sets the glasses near to Satiet's form, setting about opening the bottle with a grand flourish. "And if I ask you to go and leave me in peace?" Unable to dampen that blush, and all too aware of it if the renewed color against the tan of her cheeks is any indication, Satiet, instead, closes her eyes and resumes the path towards her happy place: one where R'hin's presence is at least half a continent away from her. This pretense is shed at the mention of white, however, and once again her pale eyes open to fix onto the bronzerider, and surpassing her initial pleasure is suspicion. "A gift?" Still spoken in those somnolent tones of summer heat, rather than the aloof ice of norm, the slight woman deigns to prop herself up on her elbows enough to catch a better view of both bottle and glasses before lifting her chin to find R'hin once more. "And you would share Benden white with me?" "Peace is all around us, my dear goldrider," R'hin gestures grandly to the island, "You're welcome to it," he adds, though he makes no move to depart. The glasses are picked up one by one, and filled, the sound of splashing wine and the crisp scent of the wine detectable even with eyes closed. While pale eyes take note of the blush, he makes no mention of it - perhaps he finds it too easy a target for him to focus on. He settles himself down on the sand next to the woman, uninvited, the bottle of wine half buried in the sand to prevent it tipping before he proffers one of the glasses towards her, brows flickering upwards at her question. "My dear lady, there are -many- things I would share with you, if you were but to ask." It's on R'hin's face that Satiet's gaze lingers, dwelling along the firm lines that define the bronzerider's features, rather than the splash of wine into one of the glasses, though her nose twitches delicately at the scents that waft. "It'll get warm here and you don't drink white warm," she notes, an absent sort of declaration. Schooled now, the flush recedes leaving only the patchy hue of a tan beginning to claim hold of her typically pale skin, and with renewed composure now that her face isn't betraying more of her emotions than needed, one slender arm frees itself from propping the slender frame up and accepts the glass, sniffing at the rim. "Markel's vintage from a turn ago?" is her deliberate ignoring of his insinuation. "Then we'd best drink it fast, no?" R'hin retorts adeptly, barely restrained merriment in his expression, lips twitching into a full throated chuckle. "Ah, I should've guessed that you of all people would turn out to be a connoisseur," he says, confirming her guess with a tip of his glass in silent salutation, taking a small sip of the wine himself. Relishing it for a moment, he exhales, eyes lingering ostensibly on her to take in her measurement of the wine's worth. "You've been a hard woman to find out late. Not in the least -sociable-," he says. "I'd have at least expected a cool rebuff to an offer of a dance at my graduation. Now that chance is forever lost." He says, with mock-dismay, voice sliding lower by inches, "In my head, you'll have to forever accede to my smooth charms." "Do you plan on getting me drunk, bronzerider?" Archly spoken, Satiet pushes herself onto her side, mussing the folds of her wispy dress as she does so, and turns bare shoulders inward to steady her weight while not spilling a drop of the precious wine. The glass, granted one last glance, is then swirled before being tipped forward in a mocking toast of the other rider, and then sipped. Appreciation finds the raven-haired woman's lightly closed eyes, and the further inward draw of her shoulders. "Once you've seen one graduation, I imagine you've seen them all, I find the entire tradition to be a mockery of what dragonriding should stand for. Aerial shows and overindulgence." Arrogance lifts her chin once more, and frank inquisitiveness blinks upward at R'hin from the depths of her brilliant gaze. Question gives way to a sarcastic glint and an all-knowing smirk. "You would not have asked me to dance." With a swirl of the wine in his glass, R'hin raises a single eyebrow in bemused response to the accusation. His voice is low, amused, and not in the least bit affronted: "On a single bottle of wine? If I'd planned that, lady of the spires, I would've brought three and done the job right." Lips spread into a smile as he watches her closed-eye appreciation of the drink. He concedes her summary of the events with a tip of head, admitting, "True, but a necessary step - for me at least - to be in more of a position where I can be of some service to you... Weyrwoman." The sarcasm is met with an even look, one hand unnecessarily reaching out to brush sand off a fold of the raven-haired woman's dress. "I would have," he counters, simply, needing little more to return the challenge than the honest words. "So you've graduated." Wine not only fortifies the soul and loosens the tongue, but also serves to relax the rigid set of Satiet's body so that when sand is brushed off her dress, neither face nor athletic frame flinch away. Instead, the gesture is spared a lash-obscured glance down, and with the lowering of her wine, so the glass' bottom grazes his hand, she hopes to still his hand to remain near. "Would that have been your request of me then, bronzerider, releasing me from the promise I made turns previous? Perhaps, some would even think, foolishly." "Perhaps," R'hin allows with a tip of his head as if to continue to peruse her expression, "But we'll never know, now. That opportunity has passed us by." Smile curves, ever so slightly, "But more open up, in its place." His hand does move, but only to cover hers, over the glass, as if to steady it and prevent her spilling any of the precious liquid. "Now," his voice lowest to a mere whisper, making it intimate, bending his head closer so she can hear, "Now I build a gift for you, far greater than a bottle of Benden white. People who will support and be loyal to a Weyrwoman of change." Beneath his hand, hers tenses, minutely, but enough to be noticeable through even the slightest touch. Complete silence greets R'hin's words, though it's notable that Satiet's own head's dropped forward to lend credence to the illusion of intimacy, her ear touched red with the warmth of his whisper to them. It even seems that her breath stills in the aftermath of his words, caught in an exhalation stuck in her throat that is expelled in a tightly reigned in voice: breathless calm superimposed over a tremor of naked desire for what he promises despite the actual content of her quiet remark. "You speak treason." "Do I?" he counters, voice low, yet full of that sharp intensity, "Or do I speak of reason? One day, Teonath will rise as senior. That is a given. When that day comes, will you wish to be in charge of a Weyr whose people will fight you? Or a Weyr whose people will support you, support the changes that we -must- make to ensure the future of the Weyr?" R'hin's rough fingers slide over hers for a moment, pulling free to allow fingers to trace under her chin, to bring her eyes up to where his can meet them. "I offer you power, lady of the spires. Treason or no, I do not think you would turn me down." A faint hint of humor sparks in his voice, but expression remains solemn, serious. Treason or not, the run of his rough fingers to her chin causes her to turn her head down, the sharp point of her chin meeting his fingers and sliding down her face so the touch can run along her jawline, rather than lifting it up to meet his eyes as his touch seems to desire. It's on her own terms that a glimmer of pale, crystalline blue is lifted to meet R'hin's own light eyes and what ambition she's kept out of her voice finds outlet in her steady and visibly warming gaze. "We must-? Is a strong pairing of words, R'hin, and there are others," the last a futile attempt at protest or self-deprecation, "Other golds." But the comment trails off into a quiet of thought where blue eyes continue to hold, returning the intensity of the bronzerider in kind. "Have you made your peace then, Rathin," a beat, after which the repetition of his name is said with soft possession, "R'hin, once of the Beowin's, to this path in life?" The glass, held slack in her hand, is near forgotten as its finds rest in the sand once more. "Whether I have made my peace or not, I am tied to this Weyr." The gentle touch turns into something a bit rougher for a moment, whatever regrets R'hin might have about his decisions schooled from his expression, providing little answer to her latter query. "And I will make the most of what I have been given. Our duty is to protect Pern, yet who protects us when generous thoughts of long-gone days of Thread have passed? No one. I will not see us living on the scraps of the Holders in fifty Turns time. I would give us a purpose that transcends Thread. You will be Weyrwoman," he concludes, almost viciously, heat creeping into his voice, "Because you want it. And what you want, Teonath will want, and that will mean everything." Gentle or rough, it's the latter that draws out a fire in pale eyes, though not one of anger. Intrigue and a desire to transcends just ambition flashes bright in already brilliantly-hued eyes and it takes Satiet several moments to pull her gaze away from R'hin and his fierce words to watch the liquid of her glass instead. "And you will be at my side because I and mine desire it, bronzerider?" Suddenly cold, a ruthlessly self-imposed distance intrudes in the seconds prior warmth of her inflection, and the query hangs between the pair. While her head drops, R'hin's attention remains fixed on her, fingers dropping from her skin, but only to draw them instead across the drape of dark hair. A slow exhale meets her cool query, almost as if the bronzerider was expecting it, bracing himself for it. "I have yet to find a Weyrleader for you," he says, by way of response, neatly deflecting the question without quite answering it. "You will need someone strong. Someone who can be charming when required, likeable and charismatic enough to convince others of his ways, diplomatic to soothe over the many ruffled feathers that will inevitably come with change." Nor, interesting, does he ask whether it is something she desires, as if perhaps he would rather the answer not be brought into the open. A study of human nature, lifelong though her life is not even a quarter century yet, draws a thoughtful purse to Satiet's lips as his hand falls to her hair and his words are telling in their lack. "Who would be stronger and more charismatic than the person who has convinced many to follow one?" Rhetorical, the answer to her question is self-evident in the cool gaze that remains on R'hin and to keep him from flight at her comment, one hand lifts to hold his to her hair, drawing his fingers down to the nape of her neck. Tightening her grip, though its far from steely and easily breakable if desired, she murmurs with the faint scent of the fruits and vanilla of the wine on her breath that draws too close to his chin to tickle her words there, "Who would they follow then, R'hin, your gift. You or me?" A low voiced chuckle is almost felt more than heard. "I've some of the characteristics I speak of, but not all." R'hin's amusement is brief, self-directed, all too aware of his own foibles. There is, however, no hint of regret, merely acceptance. While her grip is not tight, he does not pull away, allowing the rough pads of his fingers to pass over the skin of her neck, head bending down so that lips are close to her ear again, voice a mere whisper, "I would not have the light shone on me. Shadows are cast. Things cannot be hidden. You, however, Satiet," he pauses to breathe in deeply of that scent, voice betraying an unmistakable hint of desire, as he whispers her name in that intimate way of his, "You will lead. They follow ideals, and you will embody those ideals." "I would be a figurehead." Despite the intimacy of her spoken name, the flush that's resumed its rise to her cheeks, and irrelevant to the way her eyes close to cede to his touch, Satiet still manages to sound faintly petulant under her breath. "The master of shadows and change, and his puppet." R'hin's response is simple, incontestable: "No." "Then what would you gain?" is Satiet's quick return, equally simple though sharper of voice as petulance gives way to a stiffness that also tenses her shoulders. The tenseness is felt through his touch, unremarked on. "I do not desire a lifetime of meaningless pursuit. I've no wish to control you, Satiet, and no need to. I rather suspect that you and I are in accord on many issues." R'hin's eyes glitter in dark anticipation as he draws back enough to study her features. "I look forward to finding out just how much." His fingers draw away from her neck, across and down her shoulders, though pale eyes never leave her. "I have pledged my loyalty to you. You will need someone to do... what needs to be done. The... less than honest work. People like Maja and M'wen... they will be above reproach, and so must you be, lady of the spires." "The wine is getting warm," is all Satiet says, distancing herself from the conversation, though the tremble of her shoulders beneath his touch speaks of unvoiced thoughts. "We have much work to do, the first of which includes dispatching this bottle, bronzerider and enjoying what little remains of my rest day. I get so few." R'hin's lips curve into a smile at her rejoinder, taking the change of topic as acceptance - no matter the unvoiced thoughts. "As you command, my lady," he murmurs, fingers finally dropping free with a last brush of fingers to her skin. He scoops up the bottle, refilling her glass first, then his. "A toast, perhaps?" he suggests, sly, watching her expectantly. Thoughtful silence ensues, the glass weighed idly in the rotation of her wrist, and after that pause, Satiet lifts her glass. Her mouth shapes lopsidedly, to press inward the distinctive dimple on her right cheek. "To your graduation, Leiventh's rider and the dance I seem to owe you." "Ah," R'hin breathes, a hint of disappointment in the gesture. "Here for a moment I thought you might drink to treason." Perhaps he is only being half serious, lips twitching a moment as he lifts his glass to the toast she has chosen. "Owe me, hm?" he muses when he's swallowed the wine, eyes lingering on her as if to get a measure of the impish words. "Not to pay off your debt, certainly." "It would depend on the type of dance, wouldn't it?" Demurring against a definitive answer, Satiet instead draws herself completely upward, rather than leaned on one side and adjusts her seat with a few fidgets. "You've been busy since before graduation. Your antics are- gossip worthy it seems." If anything, R'hin seems patently amused to be the subject of any kind of gossip. "Antics?" he echoes, glance dropping to his glass as he swirls the liquid in it, "And here I thought it was the job of a bronzerider to be... busy." The smile widens in a low laugh, aware of her insinuations and blithely waving them away. "Busy." Satiet's lips flatten, as if that's not quite what she'd attribute to a bronzerider's job. "Then I've never been a bronzerider and know not whether by simple virtue of Impressing bronze all of them turn out the same." A sip turns into a longer one, the dampness of her lips licked off surreptitiously, and leaning forward, the weyrwoman observes R'hin. "Goldriders - there were expectations that I become sweet-tempered and friendly as many of the same around Pern are due to my Impression. Pfah!" Another drink punctuates the exclamation. "Does it upset you?" he asks, genuinely curious. "The gossip, of me?" A tip of head, and faint amusement shines through, "You, my dear lady, are anything but a mild-mannered, sweet-tempered goldrider. I'd've had no interest in you, if you were." He wraps both hands around his glass, rolling it back and forth, studying her over the rim with barely concealed possessiveness. Satiet doesn't respond, her lips pursing as she finds the rose towel bunched beneath her legs. "Some more wine, bronzerider." The glance down prevents her from seeing that possessiveness, however trace, but something, most likely the effects of a glass of wine swallowed too quickly, bids her stance to waver. Near the shore line, Teonath shifts, turning herself around so the opposite side can soak in the last rays of warmth offered by a setting sun, and in the process causes a low tide to crest upwards towards the pair. Demand or request, either way R'hin accedes without question, filling her glass near to the brim, his only slightly less so. It would seem he takes her lack of response as a positive, and is surprised by it. A beat or two passes, then, "You've a weyrmate. So you keep telling me." Leiventh, curled up on the sand, cracks an eyelid as some of the water reaches him, whirling eye settling on the gold until she falls still again. Satiet's response is terse, and cut even shorter by the glass of wine finding her lips for a lengthy sip, more gulp. "I do." One would think her weyrmate drives her to drink the way the glass is dispatched. "He's a good man, B'rakis." The implications of her undertones implies that he's the opposite of the man at her side. "You spoke of interest?" It's a thought that seems to pass the bronzerider's mind, if the way he notes that gulp with a twitch of brows is anything to judge by. "A good man, who is no longer Ista's Weyrleader, nor even it's Weyrsecond." A hint of laughter in his voice as he counters her request for more information with his own rebuffed query, "And you spoke of my antics." "By choice," Satiet insists, her fingers tightening around the glass stem to whiten the tips of her knuckles. "I do not fault him his choices." A thread of revulsion weighs heavily in her final word, distaste wrinkling her nose. "No matter. Whether he is Ista's Weyrleader or Weyrsecond now or not does not change the fact that he is a good man." Good man or not, the raven hair shifts beneath R'hin's observation, head bending again to catch sight of the remnant liquid in her glass. "Your antics, which you know full well. I know not of your interest." "A good man," he echoes her precisely, intonation and everything. "In contrast to me, I assume. I ought to meet this mysterious weyrmate of yours. Perhaps he would do as your Weyrleader, after all." It's difficult to determine if R'hin's mocking her or not, and he doesn't make it any easier; his attention is likewise on his glass as he takes another sip. "You did not answer my question, lady of the spires; should I then answer yours?" "Fort?" Satiet's brows tweak upwards along her forehead, though it's the only word she allows in response to his query. "I don't care of your interest then." A blatant lie, most definitely, that she does nothing further to dismiss, especially after a sidelong glance upward through dark lashes to watch the bronzerider surreptitiously. If anything, R'hin is surprised, and a low chuckle follows. "Fort? Is that what you ask after? There are so many more -interesting- things you could've asked of me; the Igen goldflight; the Igen brownrider; the Istan greenrider." He leans back, tossing down the rest of his drink as he waves her query away. "-Fort- has nothing more to speak to it's name than a claim of, hundreds of Turns ago, having been the first, the most haphazard, the most ill-planned and ill-prepared," is all he'll say on that score. It would be difficult for him to miss the lie, and he leans closer to top up her glass with the last of the wine. "Would it appease you to believe I have interest in you, Satiet?" again, that low, intimate voice, "If so, then believe it." But the prevarication makes the words that follow doubtful. The long list of antics, whether Satiet was aware of them or not, do nothing to mar the pretty tableau the goldrider makes with her head bent, lashes lifted, and the soft curve of her shoulders and neck exposed due to the tilt of her head; still as he speaks. Raven hair spills over her other shoulder, and at the end of all his words, unmoved by the lean forward and intimacy of his voice, she just remarks, "I am not Maja." Jealousy, however reigned in, thy name is woman. "No, indeed," and the possessiveness doesn't leave his voice. "She has her own, unique, foibles. Maja, however," he exhales, and it almost seems regretful, "Is a person of good morals. I am what I am, but I will not be the one to destroy that." R'hin's eyes flow over the woman before him, touching on her hair, following the curve of neck and shoulders. "You," he echoes, with a suddenly softer voice, "Are not her." The implication made clear that he considers the goldrider's own morals to be a little more ambiguous. "You would string her along." Satiet has her own moral standards, as disapproval lingers in her alto, rising above the jealousy at perceived situations between the two riders of clutch siblings. "I. Am not her." Repeated once more, it seems to give her what impetus to drive her forward, drawing a slim hand up to brush the soft back to R'hin's cheek and curving along to press against his lips lightly. "I thank you for the wine and your most generous gift, bronzerider." "I would not destroy her," R'hin counters, anger in his voice at her accusation, however true it might be. That anger, as it always seems to, draws into physicality, one hand rising swiftly to grab at her wrist with a little more force than necessary, pulling it away from his lips. Pale, angry eyes stare at her for a beat, then he swiftly leans forward, pressing his lips against hers, almost forcefully, deepening the kiss after a moment if she'll let him. Satisfaction bordering on triumph is well-masked behind layers of ice in the goldrider's pale eyes, and while the corner of her lips curve, it's so minute that by the time his lips meet hers, the purse of anticipation of them have smoothed the sly lip curls down. Satiet's free hand drops her wine glass to the towel, where it rolls further down into the sand. Sandy hair entwines between her fingers, first pulling him closer to violently deepen the kiss, and then an attempt to jerk her arm back to pull his face away. The fact that she's slighter, regardless of how athletic, does not bode well for her strategy unless allowed. Oblivious to satisfaction or triumph, all that concerns R'hin for those precious moments is the kiss - that dangerous straddles the line between anger and passion. He allows her to pull him back eventually, a hint that perhaps part of him is fighting this as well. His eyes almost seem darkened with muted desire, and a low growl echoes from his throat as his studies her, like he's assessing his options for a moment. Decision made, his hand sweeps down, flinging the glasses carelessly away, the bottle too, before shifting his body weight, simply leaning against her in order to press her to the sand, his body following in her wake, demanding what she's offered. Where he's made his decision in that moment, it becomes increasingly clear that Satiet remains on that thin line she's skirted along and rapidly coming to the realization that for him, at least, the line's been crossed. To say she struggles is an overstatement, the fight of her arms and twisting legs ineffectual and half-hearted, as if propriety and ingrained upbringing demands such actions, but her body surrenders, falling back and providing little resistance to his press forward and after a while, her arms capitulate to entangle behind his neck. That Teonath's awake, the gentle whirl of pale blue against sea green watchful of the skies and inquisitive for the potential coupling on the sand, matters little to the gold's rider in her quest to fulfill her inhibited desires; desires which coincide with R'hin's movements, seemingly fueled by the same near-violent passion. Leiventh, too, seems intrigued, though he doesn't much move in order to watch, just a slight shift of head to allow a better position to see from. Oblivious to either of the dragon's curiosities, R'hin, knowing the protest on Satiet's behalf is half-hearted at best, doesn't let it stop him. Forceful need to fulfil his own desires ensures no more words are uttered, driven solely by emotion and the need to possess her. And in the lingering rose of the setting sun, the beach strewn with two glasses, the falls of which were cushioned by sand, a leaking bottle of wine, and a faded rose towel, Satiet surrenders possession to R'hin - at least for this battle of wills and desire. At the end, with shallow breathing that exhales into the humid sky, and the flush of satiation vivid on her cheeks, the lack of words is remedied by a soft clearing of her throat and a parched voice of bemused exhaustion, "I suppose, the wine's all gone then." "Mmmhmm," comes R'hin's lazy murmur of agreement, eyes closed, one hand tracing over Satiet's arm, back and forth in languid possessiveness. Pale eyes open to regard the goldrider with amusement, hint of humor in his voice as he says, "I've more in my weyr. There's less sand there, too." The way he studies her is almost as if he expects her to balk, waiting for it. Watchful while his eyes are closed, her pale blue skips away immediately as his open, offering R'hin her profile instead. Perhaps it's the trace of his fingers along her arm, ownership palpable in the designs on her skin, or his less subtle invitation but indecision wars long on Satiet's face. The fact that she hasn't kicked or slapped him yet speaks volumes given the rumors of her reputation for those audacious enough to attempt small familiarities such as kisses let alone more. In the end, a sly smirk hints at the corners, curving lopsidedly once more in a sardonic twist that lends feral sensuality to her features, "Tonight. Less sand and a bath. Whoever said sex on a beach was romantic obviously," a discomforted squirm, "Never did it themselves." The assent is a surprise, as is the fact that she's still present. R'hin's brow draws down briefly, voicing silent perplexity as he studies her profile. Still, he recovers swiftly enough, eyes glimmering briefly: the anger's been borne away, his familiar amused indulgence back, "As you wish, lady of the spires." He leans over, either oblivious to her capriciousness or deliberately baiting it: lips pressing against her temple, such a simple gesture that speaks much implied ownership. Feeling generously gracious, he collects discard items of clothing, movements languid and slow, relaxed. With R'hin's anger swept away, so too does the bulk of Satiet's interest, and while she lies there for a moment longer, still in body despite the bristle that races through her cool gaze at the kiss to her forehead, there's deliberate calculation to each of her successive movements: from the slow rise to readjust her bunched skirt, pulling the ends down to a more discrete level, and the casual hand tousle of her dark hair that's punctuated by a toss that sends loose curls behind her shoulders. With eyes reflective more of water than cold ice, she watches R'hin carefully and wanders a path towards Teonath that deviates near the bronzerider. "I don't trust you," is finally called out once she's planted herself against the sun-warmed golden hide. R'hin collects the glasses and the empty bottle as well, moving over to pack both into Leiventh's saddlebags, the bronze rumbling low. The words don't surprise him, even after what just happened. "You shouldn't," he agrees evenly, watching her. A beat, and then he's striding towards her purposefully, a hand lifting to brush sand from her hair. The gesture has an air of impulsiveness, but the pause that preceded it might indicate otherwise. Pale eyes flicker briefly to Teonath but refocus soon enough on her rider, with a faint twitch of lips. "It was the wine." Blaming everything but herself, his pause gives Satiet the time to tip her head away just so to disallow him the intimacy of brushing her hair loose of sand. The combination of the little things: forehead kiss, possessive finger dances, and the general aura of ownership culminates finally to turn the goldrider's expression cooler. "I have an early engagement tomorrow morning, perhaps some other time-," which, with the clipped tone of her alto translates to never. "It- the wine," as if that's all it was, "Was lovely." "Ah," R'hin breathes, mocking laughter in the beat that follows. He doesn't seem particularly fazed by the turn of icy countenance, almost as if he was expecting it - more, waiting for it. Even though the gesture is rebuffed, he lets his hand linger in the space where she was for a moment or two before hands push into his pockets, as if to present a facade that is little threat. "I've more of Markel's turn-old vintage in my weyr, should you wish to... partake of it again." Swiftly, giving little time to react and forceful even if he should, Satiet reaches up with strong fingers to turn his chin down, and on tiptoes plants a fiercely seeking kiss on his lips. It doesn't last too long, and should he attempt to prolong it, her pull back, this time, isn't half-hearted. With expediency to her movements, and no vocal reply for his offer, the white-clad woman vaults atop her dragon, and subsequently to the sky, out of reach. R'hin has little time to react and, indeed, the raven-haired woman is up on Teonath before he even thinks to move back out of the way, squinting up the rapidly departing gold before it flickers out. With a wry twitch of lips, he saunters over towards Leiventh, taking his time to follow in turn. |
Leave A Comment