Logs:Satiet Has the List? What Does Shanlee Have?
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| RL Date: 22 June, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 1, Month 11, Turn 16 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Riahla/Mentions, Suireh/Mentions |
| Satiet'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') What does a weyrwoman do to get dusty and warrant an pre-dinner shower? Rather, does it matter, for Satiet, damp hair piled into a loosely pinned bun putzes barefoot about her weyr, tidying little things: shifting a vase on her stone table minutely out of place, giving a passing glance over the top of a hide stack, collecting a pair of kid socks left near a raggedy doll on the floor... The daily monotony of life until dinner. The daily monotony of life until dinner-- quietly observed from the arched entrance to Satiet's weyr. Complacent, by the looks of things, N'thei leans in that archway with one shoulder against the stone, with those filmy curtains parted and draped halfway over one arm. Tranquil gray eyes follow the path of bare feet, contented voyeurism; or is it the assumption that she already knows he's here? It's somewhere after putting away the socks, while passing the doll back and forth in between her hands indecisively that in the slight woman's survey of her weyr, pale eyes cross over N'thei, continue in their turn away, and then return slowly on the pivot of her heel. There she stands still, quirked mouth pairing with lifted brows, entertained. "Enjoying the view?" A nod, a quick and depthless smile. "Yes." N'thei bows his head, indicates the doll and Satiet stalling with it, seems to expect that she'll carry on with her task just to please his idle attention. The pairing of gauzy curtains fluttering through his fingers is a weird juxtaposition-- proverbial bull in the china closet-- despite how happy it seems to make him. Eyes abruptly on damp hair; "You took a bath." Yes, he does wonder what a weyrwoman could do to get dusty. She rocks idly on her feet, back and forth, until she ends up on the tips of her toes, which only make her maybe an inch taller. Maybe not even. "Or else it poured raining when you weren't looking and only my hair got wet," responds Satiet, droll. "Is it so surprising? Do you have visions," a mocking correction follows the slightest hitch in breath, "Fantasies, that I'm always unbelievably clean?" The raggedy doll is as incongruous in her hands at this point as N'thei with the fluttering curtains in his fingers. A prompt; "Yes?" N'thei likes the correction, mocking as it might have been, and shows it in a smile that does reach his eyes this time. Bright; "No. In my fantasies, you're pretty much always." Exhale emphatically. "Dirty." Which does nothing to deter his momentary infatuation with Satiet's clean bare toes, with tidy damp hair, with giving the curtain an unwarranted tug between his fingers. Her tone back to her, "Yes? Mmn. Milani?" Takes the extra monosyllable to put distance between fantasy and business. "Not dead," is Satiet's pithy answer. "Yet." "Unfortunate." N'thei, disappointed, pushes the curtain away lest it suffer any more violations for the track of his mind. Upholstery never did anything to him. Arms fold, lean reestablishes against the arch with intent to stay there indefinitely. "Details." Could almost fit the word 'please' into the space between the demand and the questioning lift of his eyebrows. The doll shifts hands once more, no place found for it to rest yet - Satiet's weyr not equipped at actually dealing with her children's escapades. That's what nurseries are for. From her tiptoes she drops, a passing, amused glance for the wrinkled curtain. "Heard he got caught," comments Satiet. "Lucky that. Mmm, isn't it? Poor man. I liked him." N'thei deadpans, "Shame. Next time we decide to select a criminal, I'll be sure you're on the committee." The tell of frustration, the teeth sawing across his lip, unfocused attention settled on the out-of-place doll. "Punished? Promoted?" Satiet's already told him she's not dead, so he can't really summon the effort to sound particularly hopeful either way, just asking out of bland need-to-know now. From the curtain, Satiet's eyes stray to N'thei in a passing once over that hooks up one corner of her mouth when she finally climbs her gaze from his feet to meet the frustration of his gray eyes. "Confused." Which, though punishment in her book, might not be construed as such by others; a fact the goldrider seems aware of as she takes a few steps towards the Weyrleader, stretching up to reach past him to straighten that curtain. "Confused as to which way is up. Which way is down. Possibly driving herself mad. The usual trials that nag those with a conscience." Detached or curious. Which one... "What did you say to her." N'thei's eyes follow the hand reaching past his shoulder, narrow momentarily in a twinge of continued frustration. "To make her doubt herself." And he reaches to pluck Satiet's hand out of the air, to close his fingers around it, the gesture oddly detached from the frank accusation in his look and his tone; instilling doubt, one of Satiet's talents? Satiet's head tilts, a little too automatic, to study that captured hand. The sudden movement loosens a few curls from her bun. "Nothing." Pale eyes drift from the hand to N'thei, frank. An amended elaboration, or concession, preceded by a tip of her head the other way, falls half a beat later off her silvered tongue. "A story of a similar situation. Questions, as to what she actually knows, what she wanted to believe. But nothing other of consequence. She gave me the list. And apologized." And apologized. "To you." A snicker, derision. N'thei pulls the hand to the back of his neck, flattens Satiet's fingers there, rests his hand on the bend of her wrist to deter any thoughts of reclamation on her part. "For the record, I just wanted her out of it. Not broken. --If you have the list." Gears turn, a pause while he presses his tongue against closed lips, looks down-and-through the goldrider. "What did Shanlee have." The perks of weyrwomaship; unasked for, wayward apologies coming your way. "Not broken. Dead." Again, Satiet corrects N'thei. "Broken's better than dead and she won't meddle in your business for a while as she straightens her own thoughts out." Her hand to his neck. His hand to her wrist. Her released fingers fluttering against his skin. Her feet take that step closer to ease the strain of her shoulders reaching higher than her height allows easily and her raggedy doll presses into his side. In all this, she smiles simply, shrugs uncaring. "A copy? Maybe more out there. Would you like permission to kill her now?" "Who?" N'thei sets a grim frown, a flare of his nostrils while he mulls over murder. It shouldn't brighten his eyes like that, should it? "Milani or Shanlee? Both." His teeth tug across his lip again, then the look breaks when he raises his other hand to ball around the damp elasticity of Satiet's bun. Not that he's spent the last ten minutes thinking about pulling her hair or anything. "Don't you ever feel bad about it. Hurting people." Beat. Correction; "Being good at hurting people." The ivory pale features pause looking up at N'thei, poised even as he rustles his hand over her hair, even as she has to stop to think and dwell on his question. Silence, without even the steadiness of breathing to mark passing time, leads to pursed lips and the unintentional press of that doll with her unseen, whitened knuckles wringing its neck into his side. Rhetorical; "Am I good it, or is it people lack conviction in their own beliefs that it's easy?" In reanimating, her breath starts again, audible, and a brightness flashes brilliant in her blue eyes. "She'll be formidable some day, or never learn. And when she becomes formidable," for Satiet, there is no if, "She can't be threatened." N'thei answers the rhetorical question first with a squint of one eye, a dubious look smiled coldly down at Satiet. She may have meant it to go without response, but he'd remiss if he held it at that. "Don't be coy." He steals a glance down at the poor doll, between a rock and a hard place as such, then raises far more serious eyes to meet her bright ones. "Everyone can be threatened. But she's still a child. It was my error to let her get in this far, and now it's solved." Coy are her pale eyes, with their wide fringe of dark lashes, lifted all the higher to sketch out his features. His accusation needs no other response. Again, rhetorical, punctuated with those lifted eyes, "Do you condone scaring people as a solution?" Crushed doll or not, her suddenly empty hand lifts to cradle N'thei's cheek, warm, but still mocking, where he's now cold. "Give me a reason to take another bath." "Why do you keep asking questions that you already know the answers to?" N'thei asks it like it's an honest question, speaking of coy, even makes like he had no other intention in mind but to thumb his finger caressingly across the bun of Satiet's hair. "You think we're going to fuck again? Hadn't you figured out how fast I lose interest?" Of course, he's lying, now his hand cuffing from her wrist along her arm, smile turned darker at the savory-but-unwholesome turn of thoughts. It makes her smile; his words, from the coyness of his initial response to the lie so boldly told, from that hand cuffing her wrist to the smile turned dark. Her bright eyes glitter at the footsteps and babbling chatter just outside her weyr and her bare foot toes the little doll from out of their shadows towards the door. "Good night, N'thei." Babbling chatter. Footsteps. It takes a second to penetrate. And N'thei's look turns comically murderous. For a second, he tightens his fingers around that pretty little bob of hair, informs through a gritted smile, "I hate kids." So he slips out before there's any chance of interacting with them. Or killing them. Does killing count as interacting? Only if killing is worse than breaking. Satiet's smile is overly sweet, the flex of her wrist backwards only a little pained when he leaves. And then she shifts gears, sweet smile turning tepid and a reach for the crumpled doll to dust it clean before her children arrive. Satiet with her kids is weird. |
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