Logs:Of Torment
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| RL Date: 26 July, 2006 |
| Who: R'hin, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Teonath's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 7, Turn 8 (Interval 10) |
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| Your location's current time: 0:02 on day 1, month 7, Turn 58, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer night. You backwing to a neat landing on Teonath's ledge. You vault down Leiventh's side to the ground, as the dragon warbles a greeting. 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: Leiventh Teonath(#223JOQaep) Obvious exits: Inner Weyr Bowl R'hin's stopped by his own weyr long enough to divest himself of helmet, goggles and gloves. So it should be no great surprise that his hair's been damped by the rain still soaking much of High Reaches. Since he's been invited, Leiventh drops down onto Teonath's ledge without much warning - only the briefest of mental touches to alert the gold of his impending arrival. The hook-nosed bronze's low rumble of greeting can be more felt than heard, his rider sliding to the ground and glancing at Leiventh, then Teonath. "She's inside, I take it?" the latter apparently directed as much to his dragon as it is the gold. For Leiventh's arrival, there's a shift in the reposed dragon's stance - her bask of the rain and what little moonlight seeps downward interrupted, but for a welcome interlude. Broad, with more than enough space for the queen and at least one, if not two more guests, the sinuous neck cants, welcoming of both the dragon and rider, though the latter garners a more beady look behind the multi-facets of Teonath's blue-green whirled gaze. The tail that hangs loose along the side of the ledge lifts to thump and smooth out a place nearby before the slender queen returns to her relaxation. Teonath bespoke Leiventh with « You may stay. » Then quickly follows that with a confirmation, and a flash of bright color: a volatile blue penned in completely by crystalline ice. « She is within. » Leiventh> To you, Leiventh's tone is a faintly pleased sort of hum, just in the back of your mind. « Teonath says she is within. » Leiventh apparently passes on the message, though R'hin's eyes linger on Teonath for moments more, studying her carefully. With a pat of his pocket as if to assure himself of its contents, the bronzerider inclines his head towards the dragon, stepping past her in that almost-wary way of his around the queen. The cinnamon bronze, for his part, takes Teonath's invitation in stride, settling himself down in the -exact- spot she's laid out for him, eyelids half closing, though head canted just enough to keep the gold within view. You meander 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 Leiventh> Teonath senses that Leiventh's tone's a mixture of pleased and grateful hum, crimsons settling about him as he situates himself on the ledge, taking her words to heart exactly: moving where indicated, and nothing more. There's a faint sense that he's keeping an awareness of her presence, a tacit hint of attention, always present, but never outright. For once in perfect commune with her dragon of visitors without, Satiet's standing near the large stone table central in the furnishings of her weyr. "You came," notes the weyrwoman, feigning surprise in the dramatic uplift of her eyebrows. The slight woman takes in the rain-soaked hair, the state of his attire, and flicks past him to the ledge beyond. "Did you care for a drink?" Entirely too nonchalant, one gesture indicates a small table near her hearth that's collected an assortment of glass bottles, and on the heels of that gesture, begins to make steps towards it, regardless of his reply. "No, white. Benden or otherwise." Despite being aware of Teonath's propensity not to warn her rider of impending arrivals, R'hin seems inclined to take advantage of that particular possibility, quiet steps bringing him into the inner weyr. He takes in the large space, the hearth, and the decorations with a quick glance, not particularly surprised. "As if I could refuse such a request," the bronzerider answers, curve of lips appearing as pale eyes settle on the weyrwoman, taking in her nonchalance with a curious tip of head. A hint of wariness, unused to being the one on the back foot, but not without one of his usual remarks: "I'll take whatever you're offering." Unaware of his reactions, her backs already to the door and fast approaching the side table of drinks, instead of words, the patter of Satiet's bare feet to stone echo in their dull way throughout the weyr. Once there, the sounds of two glasses being set, their distinctive clinks indicative of fine craftasmanship, and then liquid being poured in takes over the silence. With a glass in each hand, the low curve of the high-ballers held loosely with the practiced ease of someone who does this far too often, the slender woman makes her way across, solemnly holding out a glass in offering. "Whiskey. The way it should be drunk." As her back is turned, R'hin uses the opportunity to study her in detail - not that he's ever been reticent about doing so when she's watching - lips pursed thoughtfully. Pale eyes are focused intently on her as she offers up the glass, and he takes it from her, fingers deliberately brushing hers before she lets go. "I'd forgotten your origins for a moment, lady of the spires," he remarks, voice low, amused. "Shall I leave you to make the toast?" he inquires, lifting the glass in preparation. Her back held little signs of anything except the normal tension of daily stress etched in the smoothness of her shoulders. And her front, Satiet's face that can be expressive when it pleases holds little more than flatness with only a trace smile that might curve one corner of her lip if it weren't being visibly held back. In the brushing of fingers is the only indication in a the constant, very faint tremble of her skin to his, that this is no pleasant encounter, though then again when have any of their encounters been lighthearted. "To pets." The glass lifts, tips in the air, and then waits. That her free hand, the one that's fallen to her side, twitches, is inconsequential for now. The glass is lifted, then freezes in the air. R'hin stares at Satiet, a beat, two passing, and he does not drink. Two simple words, wielded by her, enough to bring rise to that anger that always seems to hover just beneath the surface, waiting for an opportune moment. He struggles to conceal it, but with pale eyes meeting hers, it would be difficult to hide, and so jaw clenches in resolute anger. "To control," he counters - or perhaps adds, given the subject - tossing the drink down in one shot, harsh breath and slightly damp eyes indicating he's not immune to the liquid. If his reaction is what Satiet expected - no desired - any triumph disappears behind her own glass lifted and downed in one shot a beat after his. Not to be outdone, despite the fire that finds her jawline, she tilts her head before lifting the glass once more. Cold in stance and gaze, her voice adds further chill to the summer night with a mocking query, "Another?" "Do you plan on getting me drunk, goldrider?" R'hin's voice is roughened - by the alcohol presumably - the words deliberate echo of the ones she spoke to him not so long ago, on that sandy beach. Gaze drops towards his empty glass, and he steps over, closing the distance between them to put his glass on the table, presumably in assent. Then, too, something else is set beside the glass, a small, cloth wrapped bundle, the ex-trader wordless as he gestures for her to pour once more. "Do you plan on getting drunk, pet?" is Satiet's swift return, silver tongue rolling gently to elongate the vowel of the term of affection. "Or shall you impose control before letting things go too far?" Besides the jaw flush, the young woman sounds remarkably clear-headed without the tell-tale rasp that heated liquid's burned a path down her throat. As his glass is set down, hers too follows suit and forces the pale eyes to drop and catch sight of the package. Pretending ignorance of its existence, despite the fact that her stare lingered far too long, two more glasses are poured and then offered. "Would you like to get drunk, bronzerider, and tell me of all the deeds you have done in my name?" "I do not think I am the one in control, here," R'hin says, voice low, intent, almost accusing. The package, too, he ignores for now in favor of the glass, accepting his again, tapping it against Satiet's with the faintest of clinks. "You needn't get me drunk for that. I would tell you willingly, if you asked." A beat, as he studies her, hand lifting to brush back a bang of hair, "If you wished to know." Despite his words, on the heels of them he downs the second glass, a sharply rattling exhale that is just shy of a cough, bringing color to his face. Satiet takes this glass more slowly, appreciating the flavor of the seashore moonshine with barely lidded eyes that narrow her vision to a line. Exhaling, the little sigh is even more appreciative, and once more the glass finds her lips, resting there for now as she regards R'hin. "I wish to know." The air of finality lingers past her request. "You may not want to soil and destroy those along your way, those that will follow you blindly without knowing the entirety of your mapped out plans, but I will not be made a fool in any way, bronzerider." Dangerously quiet, her glittering eyes lose their cool quality to melt in favor of the blue luminosity of alcohol, and with one finger, reaches up to trace out R'hin's jawline. His voice is a little uneven, bass sliding into baritone briefly, "I never thought you to be a fool, Satiet," R'hin breathes her name in same way he does every time he says it. Anger flares into life at that touch, and his hand reaches up to grab hers, a little slower for the alcohol, but still quick enough. He pulls her hand down, his fingers drawing along her palm to open it up, and he puts the cloth-wrapped package in her palm. "First. Open it." There is no mistaking that it is a command, that he expects her to do it. "Consider it a... turnday present," he laughs, roughly, but the humor seems sardonic at best. When her finger fails to sustain contact, Satiet's lips jut forward in the pent anger that simmers beneath her ice-like exterior. Petulance descends on that lower lip and she would sharply pull her hand back if not for the surprise of his movements that result in the package in her hand. Around the half-finished glass her hand tightens, knuckles pulled taut and white with the strength of her grip, and though she'd ignored it before, her pale baby blues find it difficult to tear away from the cloth-wrapped gift. There's no decision between drink or present as first the drink is downed completely, the glass set on the table forcefully which frees both hands to unwork the cloth wrapping. Her "What is it?" is unnecessary as the cloth unwinds free quickly. The soft cloth encases a simple gold chain - not really much to look at - but on the chain itself hangs a similarly gold-plated key. Pale eyes glitter as R'hin watches her open it, but it is anger, not anticipation that presents itself. "This is what you -really- want, is it not? To have... control over me? The proverbial key to my heart." His tone is vicious, accusing. "To get into my head, so that all I can think about is you." His arms spread wide, as if in surrender, though it is anger that tenses the lines of his body. "To see me brought low, nothing but a pet. Will it make you happy, Satiet of High Reaches?" The chain falls out of her hands, between the cracks of her fingers to hang there, the key all that's left in the curve of her palm. Long having reached the floor, the cloth is forgotten, and two stains touch her cheeks, as if struck before his words ignite the fury of her cold gaze. Long in coming, and without the weight of over-thinking to hold her back, Satiet's hand flies up, racing to imprint her palm and the key into his cheek and should it hit, the full force of her athletic frame will make sure it stings. "You are a pet if you make it so, if you allow it to be so. If you let greenrider's designate you as such in public areas." Disdain imbues itself in the hiss of her alto, the held back frustrations leaking out to emphasize each word. "This," the key is lifted and then dropped to the ground to follow suit with the wrapping cloth, "Is worthless. You have no heart." R'hin does not attempt to move, eyes fixated on her, bearing the slap and its full weight. Head turned from her, now, his cheek flames with color not entirely due to the alcohol, and not solely due to the impact. Silence reigns after her words, and pale eyes deliberately avoid contact with hers, one hand bracing himself against the edge of the table. "What upsets you more, Weyrwoman? That I allowed it? Or that it was not you that claimed ownership?" Normally graceful movements are jerky, bespeaking anger as he reaches for the canister to refill his glass. "If I am to be tormented so, then you're right: I ought to be drunk." The next glass follows much in the vein as the first two: straight down, a choking cough following it briefly, and the harsh words as narrowed eyes fall on the key, "If it is worthless, then throw it away." In the silence, Satiet is nominally still, and with the exception of ragged breath that fails miserably at keeping her anger checked, she maintains the quiet. "I torment you?" Interspersed in the short inquiry is the continuation of harsh breathing, and her pretty, if sharp face, twists into something far uglier. "I would claim ownership over you? When you're the one that follows me with eyes that seem to undress me from the moment I walk into a room, even before we-. When you insinuate and offer things beyond what I-, that-..." Both hands ball into fists, one of which hits the side of her leg in frustration to punctuate the disjointed statements that don't quite make sense but contain the same thread of self-righteous anger. "I torment you? No, /Rathin/," she expels heatedly, "It is you that torments me. Is it the key to my heart you desire? So you can continue to play the puppet master in this glorious scheme of yours with relative ease and have me grovel at your feet and think of you when I shouldn't?" A loud thud punctuates R'hin's slamming of the glass back onto the table. He casts a sidelong look at her throughout her disjointed statements, pale eyes guarded, angry. By the time her final words are falling from her lips he's closed the distance between them, mouth seeking hers out, anger making it more forceful than necessary. His anger drives his lust, it seems. Hers causes her to duck her head and dodge, ready to be fleet of foot and spring away if not for the wall behind her. Refusing his kiss with that turn of her face doesn't stop Satiet from watching him with the same sort of heated passion she's just accused him of, nor does it stop her from saying with deliberate precision. "Answer me, why." A low growl echoes in his throat, his face pressing into her hair instead as she turns her head. One arm braces against the wall behind her, above her head, R'hin's warm breath shifting the strands of her hair as he breathes in that familiar scent of hers. "It was - is - no part of my plan to control you. To... need you. It makes it harder, blast you," he growls, tenseness riding his body. "Your -Weyrleader- should pair you." "Control," Satiet seethes out, mocking though she allows him unfettered access to her hair. While he can't see, she luxuriates in the proximity of their bodies, her head tipping back to catch against the stone behind her and allow her a fleeting glimpse of his arm steadied above before the pale eyes shut and a lustful sigh is swallowed down. In her raven locks, lavender and mint blends with the sweet tang of alcohol, and the salty rise of desire-driven perspiration. "No-. No! I refuse to play fool to someone else's pet," never mind her own hypocrisies, and with rechanneled strength, instead of reaching her arms around his neck to force a hungry kiss, she attempts to push him away. "Go to your keepers and come back," the alto is unsteady, "When you can think again." Another breath is taken and exhaled, as if R'hin attempts to hold her scent. Her voice may be mocking, but he does just that, control regained in measures, though eyes still hold that anger. Roughened fingertips gently trail down the back of her neck, before she pushes him back, hand dropping from the wall, pale eyes fixed on her. "I have no keepers. No one owns me, least of all -her-. I'd thought you smarter than that, lady of the spires." As if in deliberate contrast to his earlier demands, he leans in slowly to press lips gently against her cheek - slowly enough that she could avoid it, if she tried - exhaling slowly as he pulls away to leave. "You mock me." Quiet, tired now in the immediate aftermath of her outburst, and reluctant, it seems, to follow through on her words, the kiss is allowed, her cheek presented and pressed forward slightly to attempt to prolong the contact. "We will speak again, when the liquor has left us sane, of your plans rather than-..." Satiet need say nothing, the clench of her fist is just added emphasis to what she means. "No more than you do me, my lady," R'hin's quiet murmur follows her accusation. Where ordinarily some remark would follow such a gaping hole left by her unfinished statement, he stays silent, turning and pacing away wordlessly. You wander out onto 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: Leiventh Teonath(#223JOQaep) Obvious exits: Inner Weyr Bowl With the briefest of nods to Teonath, R'hin nudges Leiventh awake - both mentally and physically - climbing promptly up onto the bronze's neck. You clamber up onto Leiventh's back, as the dragon warbles a greeting. You launch into the air. |
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