Logs:Of Sacrifices and Consequences
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| RL Date: 15 August, 2006 |
| Who: Satiet, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Satiet's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 9, Turn 8 (Interval 10) |
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| Your location's current time: 21:25 on day 31, month 9, Turn 58, of the Tenth Pass. It is a autumn evening. 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 It's a just after the start of the evening meal, the sounds of a convivial living cavern drifting out across the bowl. R'hin, aware of Satiet's penchant to avoid such public gatherings - not that dissimilar from his own - approaches the goldrider's ledge bearing an armful of plates. A brief, jaunty bow is given to Teonath - the bronzerider as ever healthily wary of the gold - before he enters the weyr, the distinct smells of roasted herdbeast, mashed tubers, and fresh bread emanating from the covered dishes in his arms. "I come bearing gifts. The one thing I -didn't- manage to carry was drinks, but I seem to recall you have plenty of that to hand..." Teonath studies R'hin's approach with a bland fixation akin to a human contemplating the act of ant squishing. Feral lines curl the gold's mouth upward, but for now she allows the man safe passage into the candlelit weyr's interior. Within the weyr, the scents of lavender rise from tall candles set at intervals on whatever available surface, and the shadows of a woman disappearing into the bed alcove stills, silhouetted in the sunny yellow gauze curtain, at the voice without. All is quiet, though the sound of breathing grows heavier, and after a while, the weyrwoman's slight frame pushes through the curtain, hands on her hips, with a scowl for the arrival. "My office hours are over, bronzerider." R'hin seems to feel secure in taking over the large stone table, setting out the various plates on its surface. He glances critically at the arrangement before removing a couple of those lavender candles and placing them on the table, casting flickering light over the meal. He straightens as Satiet ventures out, pale eyes glittering as they roam over the woman's figure. "Yes, they are," he replies, unconcerned by scowl or tone, "Why do you think I chose now to come in?" Lips purse, eyes flickering upwards for a moment. "You -did- invite me to return when I was sober. Or are you rescinding your kind offer?" Hands spread wide, awaiting her judgement with practiced patience. Satiet's scowl deepens and the hands at her hips move to the walls, pressing against them as if for support as she watches the table rearrangement and the placement of two of her candles. "You've much to learn about women," is all she states coolly. One last knuckle whitening squeeze to that entreeway gives her the momentum to push off and make slow strides over to the other side of the table, where she regards R'hin with a dispassionate evenness - forced surely - and pressed lips of displeasure hell-bent on making its way past her cooler facade. "I'm ever so glad you've the time for me. Unless in between wrecking havoc across Pern, it has taken you -this- long to sober up." "Then teach me, lady of the spires. I am putty in your hands." The facetious words fall out all-too-smoothly, the bronzerider smiling charmingly. "Should I have brought a bottle of wine as well?" R'hin's head tips for a moment to regard Satiet with a somewhat guarded look, "I thought it best to give you time to cool off." Not himself; her, the words calculated to bring more ire to the surface. Smoothly, he matches her pacing, moving around to where she stands to pull out the chair there for her to be seated. "Besides, I've been busy. Not having a wing as such to call my own, I've been put to work on every little useless errand the powers that be can come up with." Pale eyes follow R'hin's trek to pull out her chair for her, lingering a beat on the bronzerider's own blue eyes before dropping to watch the curve of his hand against that chair. An instant flush finds her jawline, though the play of candle light makes it difficult to discern, and if he meant to draw out a reaction, it's worked as her lips do her telltale twitchy thing of words that form and then get pulled back. "And here," she finally finds her voice, a cold and decidedly ironic one at that, "I'd assumed most people at the Weyr have already learned that I've long since cooled off." Despite her words, the next beat finds her sinking gracefully into the pulled out seat with an air of expectancy cast the table; waiting to be served in all ways, until his words intrude on her expectations. With a slight tilt of her cheek so she can spare the man a sidelong glance of brilliant blue, she inquires tightly, "You've not been tapped yet?" "I try not to make assumptions about the state of a woman's mind. As you've pointed out so boldly, I'm a mere novice in that particular area." R'hin smoothly moves the chair in as she takes a seat, pausing there behind her, as if enjoying watching her without being watched in turn. As she turns to view him sidelong, however, a smile creeps across his features, voice dismissive. "Not myself, nor M'wen, nor Maja. For all I know, the whole wing as yet remains at a loose end, as yet to become productive members of Pern's society." In her sidelong study, she might take note of the necklace he now wears, a new addition to his wardrobe. Satiet's expectations, it would seem, are to be fulfilled: the bronzerider begins serving the food onto an empty place, arranged just so before being placed before the woman, dishing up a second for himself. She misses little, the lady of the spires, and in that side-long study that fixes on his expression, its descent back to the table finds in its path the pale blue stone hung around his neck. Inscrutably flat, Satiet doesn't even pause, though the slight hitch upwards of her brows indicates her notice. "The Weyrleaders," begins she, diplomatically cool and unaware of the echo of her following words, "Have much on their plates it would seem. Or perhaps they've decided the lot of you are troublemakers, too troublesome to be placed." Her fork idles over the tops of her mashed tubers, the four prongs thrust into the white mess at random intervals, twisting at the last until new peaks are formed in the whipped dish. "Have you become a woman when I wasn't looking? Are you our first female bronzerider, R'hin?" "The Weyrleaders," R'hin echoes in kind, but his voice is mocking, "Have no fall to worry about. No valuable crops of Holders to protect. What worries plague their day that could not be handled by Weyrseconds, or Wingleaders?" He moves the other chair, to place it perpendicular to Satiet's, rather than opposite, putting himself that much closer to her as he settles in. His hand rests on the table near his own fork, but he doesn't pick it up, perhaps waiting for the other to begin first. "Troublemakers," he rolls that word around on his tongue, crooked smile following, as if he enjoys that epithet. The latter query earns a long, intense look - that long that it might be uncomfortable, even, voice mildly amused, "I think I amply demonstrated to you that I am definitely not female. If you've any doubts, I'm always willing to offer up another demonstration..." a hand rises, palm up, as if in silent offering. The fork stabbings of the mashed tubers is only stilled by R'hin's last statement, and on the heels of that comment the holdbred woman goes stiff, cheeks afire. Inadvertently, her gaze drops to the table, as if those brilliant eyes could bore past the stone and fabric to ascertain the state of the bronzerider's gender, though moments later a low laughter is expelled, full of chagrin and self-deprecation. Slowly, as her face lifts and tilts to spare the man an assessing look, Satiet's wry comment drops in a mocking fashion, "Do you plan on disrobing, just to prove your manliness to me, bronzerider? Perhaps you would do better to discard the woman's jewelry you have acquired." If anything, it seems R'hin's pleased by the reaction, pale eyes filled with amusement as they rest on her features. "Are you asking me to?" the bronzerider questions, seriously - though the facade doesn't last long, a low, indulgent chuckle following soon after: "It is a gift from Ayana. Would you like to see what it says on the back?" Whether or not she does, he leans closer, twisting the stone around in with his hand for it to be viewed, the 'Love, Aya' clearly visible. He is close enough to her now, perhaps, that he inadvertently breathes deeply, taking in that familiar scent that tends to accompany her. "I suspect, perhaps, it marks me as owned by another woman, though knowing little of the vagaries of a woman's mind, I can only speculate. What do you think?" Laughter shapes Satiet's features warmly, smoothing out sharp curves and drawing an easier expression to her face; gaze fractionally accepting, lips curved into a natural set, and a wash of color that becomes her far more than the pale distance she's gathered up like a shroud around her. But her laughter is as easily cut off as it was difficult to draw out, and in a split-second, the name enough to elicit the one-eighty change, the semblance of joviality fades, diminishing completely until all that remains is the woman's parted lips as she stares at the inscription. "Perhaps, you truly have been claimed as a pet, bronzerider." Desperate to find some other place to fixate, the fork finally digs into the mashed tubers and comes up with a mouthful to busy her lips and focus her thoughts elsewhere: eating. "Perhaps," R'hin agrees, pale, guarded eyes studying the goldrider as she eats, noting her reaction with overt interest. "Or, perhaps... I find her useful. If I have to wear a necklace to ensure she continues to be useful, I shall do so." The words are cold, callous, quite far from his usually warm tones. Enough, perhaps, to draw cool attention back to him. "I think it is past time, Weyrwoman," that faint emphasis audible, "That we discussed the future." Finally, now, he leans back, picking up his own fork, spearing a slice of the herdbeast, though a large portion of his attention remains on his dinner companion. Satiet continues to pay as much attention to eating her food as R'hin pays court to watching her. Her movements are kept deliberately smooth, and her ignorance of what the bronzerider says or does is equally forced. She forks, slices, nibbles, and chews silently, the only noises ensuing from her direction not actually from her, but from the clatter of utensils to the plate, or scraping against each other. When she reaches for a glass that is not there, only then does she tilt her face to R'hin, wordless. And only when she faces him, does he finally speak: he doesn't move to get her a glass, all solicitousness gone in the face of that hard intensity that surrounds this particular topic. "You," R'hin says, "Will be a Weyrwoman of change. When you come to power, I will hand you the people through which you can implement and support those changes. You can throw out tradition entirely, sweep out all the old guard. In fact, that's what you -must- do, to survive the interval. Thread no longer falls, and dragonriders' abilities could be used in so many other ways. It will be up to you to give us purpose. Keep a traditional wing, so we don't forget the old ways, but take on board new ones - a wing of diplomats whose job it is to foster relations with the holds and the crafts, so we don't have another massing of Holders at our gates. A wing of crafters who can still practice their crafts. A rider counterpart to the Ground Watch, to manage the renegades, who will undoubtedly become more of a problem as the interval progresses. Work up our own food sources with people of beast or farmcraft backgrounds. Become -truly- autonomous. You will have the power to do anything." The food is long forgotten, though the fork still rests in his hands; his entire focus is on Satiet, as if by sheer force of will and personality he can impart that passion of determination. In a battle between R'hin's force of will and Satiet's stubborn irritability, it's difficult to say who'll come out on top. Steadfast in her silence, her pale eyes narrow over the course of his spiel and a coldness to match his intensity rises in the pale depths of her gaze. When it's clear he means to not fetch her wine, her lower lip presses forward in petulance, and with fluidity to her movements that swishes her loose white skirt, the slight figure rises from the table and begins to make a path towards her liquor cabinet. Along the way, with her fingers trailing along the table until she comes to the corner to stand by the bronzerider's seated figure, she infuses sly mocking into her intonation to offset the forced blandness of her expression, "You've thought much of what I -should- do, bronzerider. You forget, you are neither my mother to tell me what I should do, nor my dragon. You are not even my paired Weyrleader and yet you think you can dictate to me what I should or should not do? What I will become? Don't-," she turns, her standing stance allowing her a typically nonexistent height advantage, and eyes the man down her nose, and continues in the softest voice, "Ever. Order me to do anything." R'hin doesn't allow her the advantage of height for long; he pushes to his feet, ruthlessly invading her personal space. Dry, "You cannot tell me that these thoughts, these ideas have not occured to you. You are an intelligent woman, Satiet," he says her name in that way of his, low, intimiate, "You know we cannot go on as we have. What we do will effect future generations. Since I am tied to this Weyr, I will -not- see it fail. I want to gift the next generation of riders with skills and the ability to think for themselves, not simply follow how things have been done for a hundred times a hundred Turns simply because no one's ever thought to do anything different. I want weyrlings to be able to question things they disagree with, to participate in discussions that have the potential to change how things are done, to make them better. I think you know the importance of this... or at the very least," his voice drops into amusement, pale eyes lingering on hers, as a hand reaches out to brush just shy of touching her hair, "You are not one to refuse being handed the power to make whatever changes your whimsy might dictate?" Inching back, the slight woman reflexively lifts her arms, palms held forward as if to ward off an advanced, but the moment she realizes what she's doing, the slim arms drop. She doesn't concede anything of his words verbally, but at the same time refrains from arguing against them and in her silence on the subject lies tacit agreement. From her sides, one arm lifts, her hand going beneath the loose collar of her blouse and from beneath it a delicate chain is extracted from the many necklaces she wears hidden, and lays it flat against the deep rose of her tunic; the chain and the key attached. Cold eyes don't waver from staying latched to R'hin's pale gaze, and parting her lips faintly, Satiet allows one upward curve to run smooth along one corner. "And is this key, a part of the power I hold? The one that prevents me from becoming your puppet, my bronzerider?" The cold, intent demeanor wavers as pale eyes follow the movements of her hand, landing first on the chain before following its length to the key. Since she's still watching him, she'll note the faint, inaudible exhale, a hint of something dark stirring in those eyes: anger, or something more strong. His voice is a touch rough as he answers, "Power, of a sort," he concedes. He seems inordinately focused on the key, neither advancing nor retreating further. A beat or two, then, a hint of anger in his voice, "You will rule, Weyrwoman. For good or ill, that power will be yours alone." It's enough for her to note his expression shifts and the tonal change of his words. She won't crow her victory except in a smugness that hints on her lips. "I will rule, R'hin," breathy and light, warm as she leans in closer, his name contains the same overly intimate quality he grants her, "On my own terms. - Do you care for a drink?" Demure, now that she's found a higher ground from which to attack from, Satiet's gaze lifts to spy out his features through dark lashes allowing just a hint of challenge to shadow the pale blue. A low chuckle emanates from R'hin as she uses his name in kind, eyes finally lifting from the necklace to focus on her face. "I wouldn't expect any less of the lady of the spires," he murmurs, his hand lowering to brush against her hair. He takes her tone as invitation, pressing lips lingeringly against her forehead, hand sliding down to the curve of her neck as he tilts his head to look at her in kind. "I'd love a drink. Perhaps something other than that rotgut of yours?" His touch. His kiss. It's on her terms they're allowed, neither obedience nor girlish melting towards the liberties he takes marring her, now, aloof grace. Instead, she presents her forehead with a chasteness that belies the emotion simmering beneath the cool superficial mask she wears and a slight tilt to accept the warmth of his hand at her neck. "My weyr," her voice is still mocking and as cool as the hand that snakes up to caress his cheek lightly, "Is at your disposal, bronzerider. Select your liquor and join me in completing my meal." Under his chin, Satiet's fingers curl beckoning, commanding, and then remain there in wait for what he does in response. R'hin's hand trails from the arch of her neck down her back, leaning in close to her ear, his soft breath warm as he murmurs, "I do believe you still owe me a dance, lady of the spires." Though it may seem like a prize he will claim now, he does not, his free hand reaching up to catch hers beneath his chin, lifting it enough that he can kiss the knuckles of her hand, that familiar hint of intent possessiveness in the gesture. His tone, however, remains amused, lilting, "As you command, my lady." Turning aside from her, he moves towards the liquor cabinet, taking his time, bending to study the bottles contained therein, the selection apparently a thing of great weight. Words struggle to remain behind pressed lips as R'hin leans forward and then kisses her knuckles, and quiet, without the pressure of his proximity weighing on the play of her emotions, Satiet watches the bronzerider's back at the liquor cabinet, wherein lies two bottles of a Tillek red of unlabeled vintage, and several crystalline glass bottles of spicy amber liquid, a citrus-scented clear liquor, and the rotgut of before. Other assorted vials complete the young woman's collection all in varied states of half to mostly finished. Her turn a moment later brings her back to the table, soon seated with light fingers tapping out an idle beat. "You care for her." The bottles of Tillek are studied first, and dismissed. The next two bottles are examined, R'hin lifting the decanters to sniff at the contents before settling on the amber liquid, extracting two glasses, pouring them with the careful diligence required for a decent drink. A beat after Satiet's words: "Who?" It's difficult to tell, through the line of his back, whether the word is calculated or honest obliviousness. His face, when he turns with glasses in hand, is indifferent rather than guarded, stepping close once more to hand over the half-full glass. Pursuit of this line of question will rest for another time, Satiet finding what she requires in the indifference as he turns. Seated, she accepts the glass and then lifts her sharp chin to flash R'hin a very brief, but lopsidedly coy smile of disarming flirtation. Her legs are crossed, the skirt draped in even folds over her knees, and the half-raised ankle turns idle circles in the air. "Mmmm-," is exhaled just prior to her inhalation of the brandy's scent. The proximity of liquor lends her throatiness in her continued response, "And here I thought I had already given you a dance, R'hin. Tell me," she tilts her head, exposing the pale smoothness of her neck, then switches the subject abruptly, "Of your plans for this diplomatic wing that the Weyrleaders cannot fulfill themselves." Affected, casual reprimand, "Your thoughts are oddly weighted towards the carnal, for someone believed to be many to be an ice queen." An amused glitter of pale eyes, as a hint of mocking threads into R'hin's voice, "Forgive me, lady of the spires, but friendly diplomacy is not one of your greater strengths." He, too, resumes his seat, merely wetting his lips with the amber liquid before he answers her. "The diplomatic wing will be the critical one. It will ensure support from our coverage areas by fostering relations - regular visits to all the major areas, and rotating visits to the minor ones. In fifty Turns, they will forget their gratitude for protection from Thread, unless we maintain friendly contact, offer advice and assistance as necessary. They can serve as a contact point to the other wings - if they need transport for themselves or for important cargo, or vital messages, if they need advice or assistance on the safety of their homes, or the status of renegades. We must cement an alliance that will last the length of the Interval." That intensity of tone is back again, and he exhales with a hint of frustration, "It would have to be filled very carefully, as there are... few diplomats in this Weyr. My search has now extended beyond a bronzerider of those capabilities, to anyone with the talent. I will need a strong one, when the time comes. You will, too, should your Weyrleader prove deficient in that area." "I find there is precious little reasons for me to maintain friendly diplomacy with anyone but true friends." In which case, the coverage area is not true or friends - merely useful. With a glass resting in her palm, her wrist twisting to catch sight of the liquid's shade from every angle, Satiet takes little overt offense at his insinuations -- she is all too aware of the shift in her stance, in her ways and attentive wiles to flatter her guest, and the tiny smirk that hovers on her lips disappears as the glass is drawn up for a lengthy sip. Whether she actually listens or not, or the bronzerider's words go in one ear and out the other, is always a question of debate when his words elicit no ire or volatile shift in emotion, but after a spell she returns to playing with the glass calmly in one hand, rotating it to all angles. "You have lofty ideals for a trader whose status has risen only through Impression." A tip of head suggests the bronzerider's agreement on that particular point, swirling the liquid around in the glass and taking a small sip, exhaling slowly before eyes refocus on the woman across from him. "My lofty ideals have very little to do with being a trader, so much as being shackled to a Weyr that I must live at for the rest of my life - and Leiventh's life. If I must live at a hidebound Weyr, either I become what they try to make all riders become--" a hand waves dismissively in the general direction of the Weyrleader's ledges, "Or I change the system. It is not beyond the means or capabilities of -anyone- to change the hand they have been dealt, if they are willing to wear the consequences. Even the lowest of the low." A hint of irony, as he adds, "Even me." It's the dismissive hand gesture that captures Satiet's attention more than the words the young man says. Not that she isn't listening, for she clearly is, with all the nods in the right places and a cock of her eyebrows at the bronzerider's final statement. "You realize you speak words that very little of Pern would desire to hear, that we are all capable of change? That could bring upheaval to the solid ground of what would give me the right to exact change." A pause, and the slender, raven-haired woman tips her chin back, not drawing on the wiles of her femininity to elicit a response, but the cool distance of her gaze: challenge. "What consequences, R'hin, do you plan to reap and conquer for yourself?" Familiar, low chuckle escapes the bronzerider at her words, "I know," he concedes, undaunted by it, "But -that- is not a system I wish to try and tackle... not yet, anyway. For now, a Senior Weyrwoman rules all. By their own rules and laws, you shall have the power to do what you wish." R'hin doesn't immediately answer her question, pale eyes drifting over the woman's form, appreciative if nothing else, and not much bothering to hide it. He takes another sip from his glass, but an astute observation would note that the level of liquid in the glass doesn't seem to diminish noticeably. "Consequences?" he echoes, almost blandly. "I have told you. I wish the strength of purpose that such a change would bring to us. The freedom to dissent with what has gone before. Perhaps also, if the lady of the spires feels so indulgent," a lowering of his voice, a hint of roughened voice, "A measure of the lady's time. An evening spent in your company is, after all, never dull." For all her aloof coldness, especially in terms of affection, like a flower to sunlight, the young woman flourishes with R'hin's attentiveness, secreting a satisfied smile behind her glass. Under the pretense of savoring the liquid, the lengthy time spent at the glass only wetting Satiet's lips, the pale-eyed weyrwoman watches R'hin. "Consequences," she repeats blandly when the glass falls from her lips, though his last garners a sly little smile, "Would you sacrifice your own life for such a cause? What would the extent of bringing about the changes you desire, what would you give to make it happen? What would be worth allowing folks such as Shalyn," her lips twist mockingly, "Or the Majas and Ayanas of the world freedom to dissent /and/ be heard." A poignant pause where that smile deepens is followed slowly by a drawled, "We shall talk of your rewards later." R'hin leans forward, setting his largely untouched glass aside, putting himself that much closer to Satiet, just on the edge of her personal space. The question, though asked with a bland tone, is afforded the seriousness it deserves, his voice low, intent. "My life is worth very little. Your question is flawed, however. It should be, would I sacrifice my life to see you become great? To see M'wen, and Maja become great, as they should? I see it in all of you, that potential stifled by the current way of things. Ask me again," but he waves away any response, answering immediately, fervently, "Yes, I would. It would give -me- purpose. And it is all I can offer, for -I- will never be great." As one of the tall lavender spires slowly melts down towards being a nub, Satiet's eyes never waver from R'hin, despite his encroachment into her space. Indeed, she drops her eyes long enough to eye his knees, before lifting them again in a fleeting movement that results in her leaning forward too and placing one hand casually on the man's knee. The pressure of her slight weight isn't significant, but the cold eyes compel him to watch hers, the dampened fury that rises in them not giving way in her cadenced alto. "And the vast potential I've seen in you since the day you mocked me atop that tree, R'hin? That your life as a trader, by the ways of Tradition, would never allow you the chance to fulfill that potential?" Closer, her torso bends forward until the height difference is exacerbated with the diminutive woman gazing up through her dark lashes. "Do not," her voice cool and commanding, with the exception of the name - that name that with a gentle twist of her tongue becomes possessive, "Deprecate yourself in front of me again, R'hin. For I promise, you will be great." "Potential, perhaps. But, Weyrwoman," he rolls that word around, curve of lips following, "I am not to be a leader of people. A trader at one point I was, but I was more than that, worse than that, before. People such as myself should never be put in the light, for all that follow will likewise turn blackened and twisted. No matter what you might think of me, I want good for this Weyr. I wish to leave a legacy, a group of leaders that will be talked about in the same tones as people mention Moreta, or Lessa-- they will also say-- Satiet." R'hin practically breathes her name, aware of the possessive tone in her voice and, despite himself, reacting to it with an accepting smile. "Idealist," Satiet returns, making the designation derogatory, however amused she sounds. "Still, you will humor me and speak no more of your lack of potential, your lack of greatness. This plan-," the pale-eyed woman concedes, dropping her glass on the table so that her other hand can drop to press on his knees like her first. "This vision you have decided to bestow on me," her sarcasm is unsubtle, "Like a gift of a bottle of your Benden wine requires planning, thought, drive - all gifts you possess, and the brilliance of two minds is always better than one. Come-," she fashions a brilliant smile to match her arrogant words, turning her chin upward to gaze up at the man she's long chosen to rule by her side, "-Humor me this once, bronzerider, and I will listen to all the plans you think to have ignited." "Visionary," R'hin counters, "M'wen - he possess a disturbing insight - and he has said that while the ideas reside in my head, I am the one least likely to bring it into the light." An exhale of breath, eyes guarded, "I would bring only darkness, and that I will not do... to you." His voice has dropped, almost to nothing, as if he dislikes voicing the words at all, as close to his true self as he might come, eyes shifting away from hers abruptly. "You mock my... vision, yet you seem so certain of your own. You do not know who I truly am, or you would not be so willing, I think, to partner me. Use me, perhaps," he concedes that last with a little laugh. All too agreeable, Satiet amends her assessment silkenly, "Visionary. You misunderstand." Her lean forward draws her out of her chair and half-standing, though her two hands remain on the bronzerider's knees. "I do not mock you or your vision. I mock your confidence, or lack thereof, in yourself, trader. Who are you truly, that I would not be willing, trader?" That his designation shifts back to the title from turns past is deliberate, Satiet never one to miss an opportunity to utilize words as they should be used: as weapons. "Would you share my bed with me tonight, R'hin, that I might learn more of what it is you hide from others?" "Do you seek to claim ownership of me, Weyrwoman?" R'hin uses words likewise, though the slight lean of his body closer to Satiet clearly telegraphs his answer, wordlessly. In one gesture, her hand claiming his cheek with a light curve that presses her warm palm to his skin, is Satiet's acceptance of his body language. His question, is answered when she slips into his lap, as her other hand releases itself from his knee to slide around his neck to curl a finger beneath the leather twines of his necklace, tugging it lightly in a come hither gesture to bring him closer. R'hin doesn't need much encouragement - in fact, he really doesn't even need that - arms wrapping around her waist to hold her in place, letting her draw his head towards her. A twitch of lips betrays his response to her wordless answer, though he seems undaunted by it, lips seeking hers. Encouraged by his responsiveness, her lips already parted to meet his, Satiet's fingers twine tighter around that leather tie, then loosens abruptly to dance both hands in light finger patterns to the back to release R'hin of this obligation at least -- though perhaps it's just the precursor that will surely lead to the shedding of all his clothes. Necklaces, after all, still count as some kind of attire, right? Curved smile curls R'hin's lips as the necklace drops to the ground with a thud, uncaring of its loss, particularly when distracted by more pleasant associations. Though she wears his own obligation, he doesn't return the gesture in kind, his hand instead tightening around her back, pressing her closer in an effort to distract her - though his kiss might be enough to do that as is, hungry, demanding, just a bit forceful. With the drop of the necklace, the stone hitting the ground first, Satiet exhales a breathy sigh of pleasure into R'hin's kiss that gains strength and intonation with the demands his lips make of hers and as she's still half-standing/half in his lap, it's easy for her to relinquish her body completely into his, dropping the entirety of her weight into his lap to make it easier to be carried off to more comfortable areas. That she's hardly picked at her meal and liquor is wasted in cups will be remedied later, but for now, R'hin and what he offers her, both power for her ambition and of himself for more carnal pleasures, is the entirety of her focused passion. Later, there'll be time for food and post-coital conversation. Later? Much later. Wrapped within those pale yellow sheets, R'hin's arm is draped with casual possessiveness over Satiet's waist, tracing lazy circles against her skin. It's grown late, and the sounds of evening revelry has long since faded away, leaving only the silence of a late night in a cold Weyr. Lifting his head, lips near the goldrider's ear, warm breath felt as he murmurs, "Care for some food?" Prone, her head tipped back to study her ceiling with breathing that evens out as time passes, Satiet's hand slips further down to caress the back of his hand with her thumb, the gesture reflexive and as possessive as his arm around her waist. The slow strokes keep up with the tracing his hand does along her belly and her solemn consideration of his question turns into a soft snort and the turn of her body so her head can rest against his chest. "Later. The hearth's died," as evidenced by the cold weyr, causing the bed to be far more comfortable now than before. But his question does give her more pause a second later as she tilts her head up, hair catching along his chin, to inquire with raised brows, "Are you hungry?" The reciprocated possessiveness, for once, doesn't seem to bother R'hin, and he lifts his arm briefly as she repositions herself, fingers resting against the small of her back. The pads of his fingers are a rough sensation as he runs them up and down against her skin, lips curving upwards into a low, suggestive chuckle at her words. "Always," he murmurs, "But at least give me a moment to rest, first." The rose that touches Satiet's jawline is a beat late as his insinuation sinks in belatedly, far after the banter, but segues into low laughter, mocking turned inward and a shake of her head that causes the raven hair to tangle in the crook of the arm she's pinned down with her body. Her hand shifts back up to trace idle patterns along his chest, following the lines of muscles defined more prominently by weyrling training with a delicate touch. "You speak of M'wen with high regard." Business can never be held at bay for too long, and any intimacy in her intonation is found only in the fact that there is a distinct lack of cool arrogance. She's genuine, her appraisal honest. "My only experience with him is that he is far too quiet and easily scared off by little more than a dark look." The grin lingers at her laughter, pale eyes sparkling with amusement. R'hin's hand continues to move up and down her back, absent-minded, allowing the smooth segue to business with barely a pause. "I hold him with high regard." Indeed, the brownrider is one of the few - if not the only - person that R'hin actually salutes and treats with obvious respect. "You speak of him as he was, not who he has become. Leadership brought out great things in him. Amongst them a disturbing insight." An uneasy pause, not likely to be missed by the sharp attentions of the weyrwoman. "You should speak with him. You will find him less a scared tunnel snake, more a man. I have come to rely on his advice." "Oh?" Obscured by her curl into his chest, breath warm against the bare skin there, her askance is heard rather than seen, though most likely, given her habits, Satiet's brows have hitched high to express or feign mocking. "For someone to have garnered such regard out of you. I am impressed. I wonder if the regard you have of me even compares to this renewed faith in the little brownrider." In the valley that splits his chest in half, her fingers still until the entirety of her palm is pressed there, repositioned with slow slides into one where the goldrider's hand is pledging allegiance against the bronzerider's chest. "And what does he advise, bronzerider, in regards to your plans for this Weyr's leadership?" Cagey, the slight woman betrays little of the tenseness she might feel either in the loose body held in his arms, or in voice, but there's a deeper curiosity that hangs lightly in her alto, beneath the superficial outer layer of her simple question. The movements of his hands cease for a moment, instead tightening against her, reassurance or warning or both. "You have never needed," R'hin says sharply, "To earn my regard. You have always had it." A glitter of eyes, amusement lacing his tones as his grip relaxes, slowly sliding back into familiar patterns, "Of that, I have not yet asked, since I have exhorted him to speak with you first. Not--" he adds, quickly, "--that he knows you are the goldrider of which I speak. But I imagine he could come to the conclusion fairly swiftly. I am keenly interested in his assessment of you." The latter words that, perhaps if it had been anyone else, he would have held back, and the bland honesty - if the brief tensing of shoulders is anything to judge by - is as much surprise to him. "And by his assessment," Satiet's return turns a fraction cool, distancing herself should the answer he supply not agree with what she'd like to hear, "You will finalize your decision? Then, it would seem, I should put my best face forward." In her preoccupation with this unlikely, very displeasing idea, she misses his tenseness on any conscious level, her hand instead reaching up to unthinkingly stroke his shoulders down. "No," R'hin disagrees, with the patient surety of complete confidence, "By his assessment, he will agree with my decision. You should be... nothing but what you are." His shoulders relax once more, one hand moving to brush against her curls as if to soothe away the cool distance he can feel. "He would make an excellent Weyrsecond for your Weyrleader. Even a Wingleader, though his diplomacy skills are something he is working on." "He is young." Satiet's assertion is dismissive of both M'wen attaining rank and even the thought of subjecting herself to approval by a brownrider. Her displeasure, however, the imminent scowl, is shed almost immediately at the bronzerider's reassurance. "And Maja?" This one deliberately 'saved' for last, the sharp chin tipped upward and the tangle of dark hair shook loose backwards as glittering eyes, inquisitive, seek out his. "So are you," R'hin asserts, with indulgent amusement. "Yet that is no measure on your abilities, nor your intelligence. S'din, after all, is old." And he seems to think that speaks for itself. His hands continue to brush against her curls, the soft silkiness of them almost irresistible. "Maja," he echoes - noting the look, and it earns a twitch of lips - "She will be a thorn in your side, but she will be loyal, strong, and determined. All qualities that you will need in your leaders." It seems he treads carefully on the subject of this particular brownrider, all too aware of the goldrider's sensitivity. Bristling at being handled, Satiet's slight frame tenses in his embrace, the small of her back drawing away from what fingers may remain there in their calloused glide along her skin. "A thorn in my side is easier kept close than distant. It's a pity M'rek is self-involved with his own affairs. It'll be a pity to lose him as a wingleader." But for all the pity she speaks of for the bronzerider, the man has already, in both the weyrwoman's mind and verbal edict, been replaced. A sharp keenness cuts into her pale eyes, the lashes thrown wide in a look that for anyone else would be guileless, as she looks up. "I do not suffer fools easily. S'din will no longer be on the ins of this Weyr." Soon, her fingers promise in their resumed glide along his chest. Soon, they desire of him, as her hand drops to splay her palm against his stomach. "Maja knows little of diplomacy." A laughable statement of hypocrisy considering the source, but the arch look she spares R'hin dares him to contradict her. The tenseness is noted, as is her drawing away, and R'hin's hand falls away from her hair, but keeps contact with her, gliding over her bare shoulders. Judging by the glint in his eyes, he approves of both her decisions, not that he dares voice it. "Indeed," he agrees with her assessment of the brownrider, "Which is why I search for a diplomat. The one... factor... lacking in all I have found so far. We have time, however." A slight tensing of muscles is all the warning she has, as he rolls over with the intention of pinning Satiet beneath him. His voice is abruptly husky, brought about no doubt by the play of her hands against his skin. "Enough talk, for now," he asserts, dropping head towards hers. She listens, the challenge of contradiction turning mute in her gaze as he does not disagree with her, and then listens further in silence. To his lack, she has no advice, merely the furrow of thought along her forehead as visible evidence of her mind racing through the roster of riders currently available and discarding each name one by one. It's while she's distracted that he makes his move, and despite the betrayal of his muscles and the tense shift that gives her forewarning where her skin meets his, she is caught unawares. With one hand trapped between their stomachs attempting to wriggle free, the other finding itself lodged like a leech in R'hin's sandy hair, his smooth segue from business to pleasure is all too welcome. Guiding his head down not to her lips, but to the suddenly exposed lines of her neck, allows her to tickle the tops of his ears with her dangerously soft promises, "We will find one - if we have to shape one ourselves." His lips press against her neck, tracing a trail of kisses along the smooth expanse, pausing to grip skin briefly between his teeth, marking her. "Mmmhmm," is R'hin's murmured response, his mind certainly no longer on business. And, given his sudden attentiveness, it's a good bet what he's doing will be enough to distract her, too. Further talk of business - and indeed the long-cold food - can wait for later. |
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