Logs:Satiet Promotes and Looks the Other Way
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| RL Date: 30 October, 2007 |
| Who: Satiet, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 1, Turn 14 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Amerie/Mentions |
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| The snow's frozen on the ground, though drudges, dragons, whoever or whatever have melted the ice leading up the steps to the Weyrleaders' shared ledge. Two massive entrances, shielded by heavy tapestries lead into the separate quarters, the Weyrwoman's designated by a more feminine design on the heavy rug; that or the Weyrleaders of High Reaches are emasculated. Teonath is absent from the ledge, but light is visible along the ground where the unlatched tapestry doesn't quite reach, disappearing now and then and indicative of movement and people within. Just after dinner, a search of the Weyr provides little view of Satiet though those used to her habits would easily find her retired to her weyr. Within, a low hearth burns, barely enough to warm the 'living room' area closest to it and seated on the floor, back to couch, is Satiet. A thick blanket hangs loosely over her shoulders, her work strewn across the rug and instead of reading or writing or doing much else, the slight woman sits, staring at the tiny fire over the rim of a filled wine glass. No warning heralds his arrival except the heavy-footed crunch of snow under boots, no word from N'thei or Wyaeth to prepare Satiet for his coming. He never so much as hesitates in the anteroom, only opens the Weyrwoman's tapesty with cold-fumbling fingers and pulls it back, lets in a rush of chill, and steps through to let it fall behind him. Only once at the verge of the inner weyr; "That's an embarrassingly small fire, miss." What she might say, the instant deer-in-headlights look that graces her eyes and that sudden turn of her head at first the gust of cold that comes in (not so different from the cold already within the weyr) and the voice, does not seem to be flattering. But it never gets said, the surprise mutating quickly into a cold anger. "As you say, it's warmer at Fort." The part of hostess is set aside within the walls of her weyr; she does not rise or greet N'thei, turning a blanket covered cold shoulder on the man. Then again, Satiet doesn't dismiss pointedly either. "Aren't you supposed to be there?" N'thei wrinkles his forehead in an attitude of deepest thought. "I don't believe I said that exactly." He comes round to where Satiet sits, places a modest bucket on the floor beside her feet, just a little thing of that precious precious coal. "More like-- it's so stupidly cold at High Reaches without cromcoal that I think everyone will wind up defecting. At least for the winter." He adds that last like it really makes it /all better/. Straightened, he stands to the side of Satiet's chair like there is nothing so rewarding as watching her partial profile. Archly, "And why haven't you defected yet? You've excuses to spend the winter away for good." There's no measured pauses and the weyrwoman doesn't mince her words or tone as she studies N'thei's approach, but it's not him she notices but with a twitch of her delicate nose, the telltale stench of coal. It's that gift, the bucket, that pauses the petulance of her features, smoothing them down once more and with a heavy sigh, the slender shoulders relent, relaxed. Blue eyes travel slowly from the floor where the bucket is, up N'thei's legs to tip back from her seat on the floor and eye him. "At least for the winter," she mocks: herself, the Weyr's state, the poor bucket of coal, him. N'thei shakes his head calmly at Satiet's first question, at her tone and her expression. "And miss so warm a reception? Mm." The spark of humor in him remains, considerably brighter than the dismal little fire at least. "No, like a moth to a sad sad little flame, I've got things to keep me here. --But I haven't come to discuss my unrequited love. Instead. I need something from you, and so I brought a bribe. Though I'm intrigued that you're carrying a grudge over an off-handed comment. Should I apologize?" His toe nudges the bucket until it rests flush against the base of Satiet's chair, the rim just to touch her calf. The sad, sad little flame of the hearth sputters a bit, on its last legs of coal while the fire's owner and tender flushes; either from wine or what he says. The reply she grants this time is more deliberate, less ready, and spoken blandly: "You mock me." Mocked or no, she extends the glass of wine up to the big man, the faint tremble of the liquid within the glass a betrayal, or testament, to how she keeps the shivers at bay. "I ran out of brandy last night. There's more than one way to keep warm in this." As for his favor and apology, Satiet says nothing, instead getting awkwardly to her feet. "Oh, that there is." The fervent tone shouldn't be mistaken; N'thei's methods for staying warm have nothing to do with brandy or coal. He takes the glass with a nod of gratitude and divests it of a healthy drink, thumb swiped under his lip to keep from dribbling when he pulls the wine away. "Don't you even want to know why I'm here, what I want?" Clearly, he'd expected something else-- irritation? curiosity? anything? Lowering the glass so his wrist rests on the back of Satiet's chair, he watches with epectancy, with no offer to help her in her awkwardness. Her response is belated, coming only after she's risen, ignored how *he* stays warm, and moved with the bucket of coal closer to the hearth. Thick socks, two pairs with the second rising in a band of black above the outer white one, make little sound in the short distance across the rug and stone. After she tends to her fire with sparse usage of N'thei's gift, the slight frame turns, pale eyes wide and deliberately free of guile. "Why should I ask when you'll feel the need to enlighten me anyway?" But then indulges the expectant bronzerider, first a few steps over and a hand reached up, barely able to cup the air about his chin. Pale eyes flare with life more becoming her than the feigned innocence prior. "Come to keep me warm, N'thei?" N'thei only smiles to Satiet's initial question, a slow-spreading grin that acknowledges the barb with no attempt to deny it, even pleased with her for making the assumption. His expression changes very little when she comes over, just lowered eyes that fix first on the hovering hand and then on the snapping eyes. With utter devotion, a tone that still hopes to catch something but recognizes the futility of chasing it; "At your beck and call, but you already know that." Except for fingers that move to graze the exposed curve of her wrist, he makes no move to suit action to words. "Do I?" Her fingers flutter to glance against his chin a half second late in response to his fingers at the exposed curve of her wrist. "Are you?" The simple lift of her chin couples with a faint curving of her lips, crooked and sly. The elegant draw of her hand out of reach and down her side is at odds with the second bout of visible shivers kept just at bay, strength of will winning a poor and temporary victory. Satiet reaches down to her chair for the blanket to use in lieu of a shawl. What is said when she chooses to speak are non-sequiturs. "I've sent my daughters home. A bucket grants you a favor." These three little words have been the undoing of countless men, most of them better men than N'thei-- "There's a girl." To fill the space, to compose himself after the fractured interlude, the big man takes a big-man-sized drink and lowers the cup back toward Satiet, tips it toward her with what little remains. "Amerie namely. She's from Crom, which I imagine has already brought her to your attention? She's tall and dark and pretty, which is what brought her to mine. I need you to make her an assistant to the headwoman." Countless men have indeed been undone by those words when spoken to women who care. Whether Satiet cares or not is unclear, but the poise with which the weyrwoman holds herself and her proud chin stills, stretching out the silence after he concludes his favor - a silence punctuated by the crackle of a small fire renewing itself determinedly. Then. Then, there's laughter: brilliant, lighthearted, utterly mocking and somehow cold despite it all. "Of course. There's a girl. Of course. You'd trade a bucket of coal for the placement of a paramour. It's a small thing to ask for if you mean to throw your lot with the Cromese." Unfettered by the cold, granted still wearing his riding jacket and gloves, N'thei's eyes still ken to the fire starting up in the background, the little bitty flame mirrored in slate gray eyes straying from Satiet. With her laughter to mock him, he assumes a suitable chagrin, a smile that apologizes for being male and therefore helpless. "Laugh as you please, so long as you say yes. And there's one more thing." He even manages to look ashamed of himself, diverted eyes, wavering half-smile. "Ah, bronzerider. So male. So devoted." Satiet drifts away from N'thei's side, turning her back to him to also survey the little flame of his doing. 'Your devotion doesn't fail to disappoint' would be the natural succession of words should she speak again of her amusement at him. It remains unsaid. Her affirmation, however, is clear, low pitched and questing as pale eyes slip over her shoulders traveling back up to quirk a high brow at Fort's clutch sire. "Such that it is. Yes." "Let her help with the rationing of coal this winter, and find some reason to ignore it." From embarrassed to pointed, quick as you please. N'thei has stayed in exactly the same spot, just beside Satiet's chair, since he came in. Now he takes a shuffled step backward, as if he would withdraw immediately after making that last request. But, step and partial pivot toward the door notwithstanding, he raises his shamefully lowered eyes to meet the goldrider's look, eyebrows lifted, catch-his-drift? The questing gaze and the question lingering in the air between them is answered, the 'drift' of what he means caught even before he's finished speaking in the keen flicker of Satiet's brilliant eyes. Where he shuffles backwards, she steps forward, purposeful and mindless of the height differentiation. Slim arms reach up to try and bring his face down to hers for what would be a solid, well-executed kiss. There's his answer, if he catches her drift. There are times when there's just nothing a person could say, and this is one of them. By the time N'thei realizes what Satiet's about, he's already being kissed, and then he's kissing her back, eager and then more eager and then abruptly drawn away. Carefully, he reaches behind his head to unhook her arms, to very gently lower them from his shoulders. Nodding, drift most certainly caught, he moves one thumb to smudge her lower lip with a dazed exhale, then a more resolute step backward. Oddly obedient to his maneuvering of her arms and accepting of the thumb pressed to her lips, Satiet, too steps back once her arms are where they should be: at her side. "My sheets are pale yellow and rose," is all she shares, a dismissive flick of her fingers gesturing him out finally. "And," she pauses, lips pursed and voice dry, "I am very good." The mocking resurfaces lightly, while her pale eyes glitter upward, waiting. He was never here to ask what he asked. "Good night, N'thei." Mute, although damned if he couldn't wake the dead with ragged breathing, N'thei slides a look around the room for anything pale yellow and rose. By now, second thoughts have reared their ugly heads, and his teeth file across his lower lip speculatively, but he ends with a firm nod. Wheeling about, he walks out of Satiet's weyr with a great deal of his dignity in tact, amazingly. |
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