Logs:Spicy Sweetness
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| RL Date: 17 December, 2004 |
| Who: Satiet, Linnea |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 7, Turn 1 (Interval 10) |
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| Satiet presses down the top to her trunk quickly, the thump resounding in the nominally empty room. The dark-haired girl casts a look over her shoulder and then back at her neatly taken care of area, "Done. Finally. It's a pity." Her nose twitches, gaze skimming from cot to cot in the large barracks, "Dinner time." Patting the top of the wooden press, fingers trail in her wake as she drifts towards another cot, neck going this way and that in an attempt to discern some of the owner's possessions. One particular item catches her fancy apparently, and finding the cot empty, she crouches to nudge something out from under the bed. Whatever it is, the thin slip of blue is tossed back underneath the fold of the bedding, a thinly masked look of disgust in her pale eyes. "Some girls just don't have any taste." Her hands brush quickly against faded gray-white trousers as she makes her way out of the cavern. You walk through the archway, into the living cavern. Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#1000RJs) Linnea glances again at her bundle of cloth, then at the chair, then at the fire, then at the back of the man who is moving off. "But I ought to make some progress on this. And for that, I need light. Even if my backside rues it later." With a sigh, she lowers herself back into her chair, resolutely setting her posture back taut against its uncomfortable wooden back. Shk shk is the sound a needle, softly plying cloth. The entrance of one slight girl is easily missed, especially with the bustle of dinner being served and eaten. Carefully picking her way through the caverns, Satiet's face contorts into a cringe as a group of residents jostle her out of the way on their way down into the lower caverns. Her clothing is smoothed down, and her steps carry with them some semblance of self-confidence. It's her eyes, though, that give her away, their twitchy slide from table to table hinting at the uncertainty beneath her veneer. Bringing her shoulders up, she makes her way to the serving tables, eyes lighting up at the spread. "We never get this much food at home," is murmured in controlled awe, quick movements procuring for herself a plate of porcine chops and a small side of the spinach. And then, the search for a viable table begins. Linnea's locale near a warm hearth reclaimed, and a few more stitches added to her embroidery later, she stretches her neck first one way, then the other. Satisfied, she checks under the back edge of the chair, and indeed, a cup of water still remains where she'd placed it. "That's strange," she muses to herself, scooting her chair and self a few feet closer to the nearest table- end and its few open seats, her attention wandering. "Now would water be considered blue? Or white? Or..." she holds it up so firelight crosses through it, reflecting, "Red?" Linnea Neatly styled brown curls start above a high forehead, then are tied back at the base of her neck by a blue ribbon. A slender nose crooks slightly to one side, and below it, slight lips give way to an almost pointed chin. She appears to be in her late teens or early twenties. Blue eyes framed by arched brows are the light of her face, often reflecting mirth or amusement and lending some levity to her appearance. Fitted tan breeches are barely visible beneath a lengthy blue skirt that allows her some freedom of movement. A blouse with long sleeves buttons tightly at the neck and at the wrists, and there strips of starched and forcibly whitened lace offer modest points of decoration. In cold weather, Linnea often wears a long dark blue many-pocketed wool coat, a likely hand-me-down with handsewn alterations. Tan heeled boots complete the ensemble, aiming to gain a bit on the girl's average height. The warmth of the fire is a beckoning invitation for the young Tillekian girl, moreso than the companionship that such a table would offer. Crowing softly under her breath at finding the corner of emptiness, she weaves her way through various people and tables before arriving at the table. With a sigh of relief, she settles first her plate down, than her bottom into the chair. Dark brows lift as the girl spares Linnea a glance, her gaze shifting to the embroidery held up to the light. "Water's blue generally," she offers, "But the waves turn a frothy white every so often." A fork is lifted towards brown haired girl, followed by a particularly politely voiced greeting, "Evening." Linnea startles, just about upending the water all over herself and her fabric as she jostles about. "What? I didn't mean to ask outloud. Did I ask outloud?" Righting the glass, she blots at the escaped droplets. "I must've. Hm. I wonder why I didn't see you approaching through this?" She holds it up as if to investigate further this matter, then ohhs. "I guess I can't really see through it all that well. Frothy white? I've seen that in the river, true enough." Thin lips pull together, then, propriety returning and dominating curiosity. "I'm Linnea," she squints, studying the fork's motions. "Good evening. Nice and warm over here, wouldn't you say?" Satiet's sardonically amused expression conveys: 'Because you're daft,' but her words lift in a strong alto, "You were probably enthralled in your work. I get like that sometimes, my father has to drag me away from working sometimes." The fork drops to pick through the breading, and neatly cut off a tiny piece. "It's warm enough. Certainly warmer than my cot. I was wondering if you knew if the Headwoman here allowed people to put warmed stones under their covers. It's never quite so cold near Tillek this time of year." And it's clear she takes offense at the weather not catering to her. Her pointed nose sniffs as she casts the bowl exit a dark look. But a smile fashions on her lips soon enough, "Satiet. That's Satiet with a t in the middle and not an sh. I hate it when people don't spell my name correctly. Tillek's duties." "River Bend's duties, in return. Gah, I know. Warmer would be fine by me." A twitch of her brows puts a large crease in her high forehead, and she adds, "Though, controlling the weather. Wouldn't that be something? Flick of a finger and the sun comes out?" A half-shrug that is really only the twitching of one shoulder before it hitches back into proper place, and Linnea continues to blot the water from her skirt and her sewing. Her eyes catch upon Satiet's ragged trousers, and the upper right area of her lip curls up, threateningly snobbishly. "Drag you away?" Wonder conquers disdain, and is this news is even more fascinating than spelling, "Really? Is that why you have holes there?" "I work," Satiet replies, the faint sneer in her simple statement combined with the thoughtfully narrowed look on Linnea's attire, showing her opinion of the other girl's work ethic. "And I was brought here in the middle of working. I see no need to ruin my nicer clothing when all I'll be doing is menial labor." One leg twists a bit, coming into plain site, the darker tan that meets the rough hem of the trousers shaking a bit with her movement. "They're comfortable." An overly pleasant smile overtakes her pinched features and another small forkful of porcine is brought to her lips. "And no one can control the weather. Don't be silly." "Of course they can't. If they could, we wouldn't ever have thread. Unless..." Distracted by conspiracy theories, she blinks, catching up. "Menial labor?" Echoes Linnea dumbly, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Why would you come here from the wide open to do that?" Oblivious, Li's eyes trace over her dark haired companion, lighting on the knot and studying it for meaning. "I suppose it is a good idea not to ruin one's best clothes when working. I don't wear my good clothes on laundry days. What's your work like, if I can ask? I've heard they make you sweep up dragon dung, and stomp grapes for drunken celebrations, and that you have to change the ticking in the weyrleader's mattress every day. What's it like, the mattress?" "Wouldn't you like to know." Satiet busies herself with eating, unperturbed with the sudden flood of questions. In between chewing, she begins with the first and works her way to the last question in a methodical fashion. "Thread isn't weather, it's different. Thread's thread, and rain's rain. Don't they teach you -that- at River's Bend?" A wilted leaf of creamed spinach is picked at idly, the green leaf rolled up with the fork before it's speared and popped into her mouth. "I haven't started working yet. I just arrived last night, and I've had the day free to explore a bit. I somehow expected a Weyr to be larger." She pauses, her lips turning upward in a lopsided smirk, "If you'd like to know about his bedding, why don't you go try it out yourself." "Of course I'd like to know. That's why I asked." Her tone isn't overly snootish, despite her body language, which includes shifting her backside in her chair and readjusting her shoulders primly. "Of course they do. It's standard, isn't it? Though I never thought about that. How they decide what they teach us? It must be written somewhere, where the Harpers keep it safe." Musingly, she balances her cup on the table, then raises her needle, poised to sew. "Exploring is good. I've been a sevenday or so. I can't keep track. Ohh, in your exploring, did you see any way they keep the sands hot? I've been looking for a passageway, but can't find one. And thank you, but I'll pass on that offer. I understand weyrfolk are less...inhibited. But really. I've also heard the weyrleader has," she leans forward, quietly whispering, "scratchbugs." A lock of raven hair spills into her eyes as she leans forward to inspect a speck on her meal. "If they taught you, you'd best try and remember their teachings. Otherwise you've wasted a good portion of your life with information leaking out your ears. Anyway, there's no Thread anymore, or so da says, for now." The continual torrents of questions is dealt with in her own prim manner, the fork never ending in its path down and back up, her answers spoken in between swallows. "No, I didn't explore that far out. My mother sent my parcels today, and I've spent most of the day rearranging my cot area just so. The bed is a bit lumpy for my tastes. I'll have to see if it's possible to get a newer one, and I'm told there will be more candidates, though it's already fairly noisy." Distaste creates wrinkle creases along the girl's forehead. "Do you have a mother?" Satiet asks abruptly, the fork still in her hand. Neither finding more food, nor coming back to her lips, the prongs point upward and in the other girl's general direction. Linnea's brows raise high up on her already graciously high forehead, and remain there for a long quiet moment, during which she studies the other girl intently, from suntan to raven hair. "I didn't ask for a reminder of the old lessons. I asked for more than I know already. But I guess you don't know any more. And that you didn't find the passageway." She crosses her ankles, brings the sewing closer to her lap, rearranges the rest of the cloth. "A package. Already? After only a night here?" Her stitches become a trifle more rapid, intent, her eyes dropping to her fabric. "Of course I've a mother. I wasn't hatched." "If you've a mother, than you should know how to keep your manners in line." Lacking the sting of a barb, Satiet's voice is pleasantly matter-of-fact - a bit overly sweet if anything. "It's not polite to speak ill of others, especially the Weyrleader." There's a pause and she continues on with terse acidity in her words, "Even if it is about scratchbugs. If you'd like to know, I advise you to check yourself." The rest of the conversation is blithly ignored as the dark-haired girl favors finishing her food over continuing the conversation. When the last leaf of spinach is cleared, she finally looks up, clear blue eyes looking in askance at the other girl, "A package, of my belongings. Karimina said that I would be here for a while, though I hope not terribly too long." "Oh good. Your things. I'd hate for you to have to wear those torn clothes to a dinner that might have the Weyrleader at it, since manners and presentation are so important." A return of sweetness, though Linnea lacks the ascerbidity for her words to aim to wound. "I wasn't speaking ill of him. I was asking if you knew. You might've been privy to things I hadn't seen, that's all. An inside track. But maybe not." Several more stitches dot her bolt of cloth, the green design becoming more clear as she works. "Though, if you'd like," tentatively, she makes this offer, the twitching of her toes causing her foot to move from the ankle down and betraying her obsessiveness over such details, "I could mend the holes." While Linnea speaks, Satiet places her utensils over the plate, and then reaches for a pitcher in the center and an overturned mug. Minimal interest in what the other girl speaks of relaxes what little tension is in the slight girl's features, her shoulders falling fractionally when she leans back in her seat. Slender fingers curve around the warmth of the filled mug, and she nods idly, indicating at least some semblance of listening. "Hmm?" Blue eyes flick upwards quickly at the offer, interest returning in the form of surprised curiosity. "Why? They'll probably gain holes anyway." Her alto softens a touch and her head tilts towards the seamstress, "But if you'd like, I suppose I could let you mend them. You're not terribly busy with other work are you?" Li's foot continues its restless twitch, and her slender nose echoes it subconsciously. An expression of deliberate relaxation comes over her face, though she wouldn't want to seem too eager for additional work. "Well, I could probably use the practice at fine hidden stitches, so having them undone later doesn't trouble me in the least. I'd probably need those for a bit, clear of else, if you can spare them. Maybe on your rest day, if you get one." A roll of one fine-boned shoulder later, she pauses in her stitches to rest the cloth over her lap, her hand reaching for her own cup and the water remaining in it. "We're up on a delivery, taking some orders for late summer, dropping tithes and the like. I've a stitch of free time, between laundry rounds, but I won't when we return home." Satiet's eyes narrow further, her cheeks drawing tight over the high bones. A question hesitates on her parted lips and in the uplift of her brows, but instead a quiet exhalation slips out. One hand drops involuntarily to finger the fabric of her worn pants, the folds wrinkled when she lets go. "Since it's for your own good, and practice, I suppose I could let you mend them whenever needed. If you'll be here tomorrow, I can drop them off in your basket while I finish my morning chores." The rim of her mug rests against her lower lip, the girl considering Linnea further. Finally a gently tempered smile floats to her lips, "I think we'll get along fabulously." Linnea sits back against the hard back of the chair, her chin dipping somewhat. "Nice of you to let me," she starts to reply, the emphasis on the permissive in a tone that suggests she won't be played that way. "I'm just not going to give them a once-over while they're on you." Her lips press together, causing them to almost vanish, and her eyes narrow before her focus returns to the fabric, which is again rolled up over her arm. "Fabulously. I'm sure." She rises, stretches, and considers the food table before the edges of her lips downturn, dismissing the notion. "I think perhaps I'll put away my sewing for the evening, and spend some time searching for that passageway under the sands. Well met, Sa-tee-et, and River Bend's duties." With her meal finished, Satiet dabs at the corner of her lips with the back of her hand and then gathers up her plate and silverware. "Well met indeed, Linnea. Sea's Peak's duties." There's just a slight breath of a pause before a wide smile draws out color on the girl's cheeks. "The Reaches as well. You've yet to tell me what you're doing at the Weyr yourself. It can't be the mountains of mending that's drawn you here, I'm sure." She slips past a pair of greenriders to deposit her plateware into a drudge's bin and lifts a hand to wiggle fingers in a good-bye towards the other girl. "Don't get lost. It wouldn't do if the tunnelsnakes got to you, you know." Sweetness and light, with just a pinch of salt, another pleasant look is cast towards the girl before she too disappears into the throng of dining people. You stroll through the archway, into the lower caverns. |
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