Logs:Squelch
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| RL Date: 9 October, 2008 |
| Who: Sunniva, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 12, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
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| It's about midday and the weather is not yet so forbiddingly cold as to keep everyone indoors; yet, indoors is precisely where one might find Sunniva on a much coveted restday, picking through the contents of the records room with a peculiarly intense expression. Long fingers drift along the backs of books and sift through the selection of scrolls, all with a sense of purpose -- seeking something of the sort that she'll only recognize once she sees it. Tucked under her arm is a journal, an otherwise well-kept thing that's missing a good quarter of the pages, with a ribbon marking some place of apparent importance within. For now, she is oblivious, or seemingly so, to the others milling sparsely throughout the chamber. Down the steps from the Weyrleaders' complex, utilizing the council chambers as a means to an end, the steps of a purpose-driven woman sounds, and through the sometimes locked door from the council room to records, Satiet appears. Impeccably dressed in a vibrant blue gown, the formality of her attire midday suggests an upper level meeting, and the weyrwoman's current location, that this meeting is sometime in the future. Mindless of the other occupants, the slight woman works her way through the shelves at a more clipped pace than that of Sunniva, fingers running along the books' spines rather than drifting, and her eventual path likely to collide with the candidate. It's the blue and the muted whisper of fine fabric that snags at the periphery of the candidate's senses and inexorably pulls her gaze in that direction. Recognition is, at least initially, derived from the other woman's manner; the knot is glimpsed as an afterthought, to confirm her suspicions. Sunniva moves surreptitiously to a side, safely out of the way of impending collision, with a slim tome being acquired in that selfsame fluid movement. Out of the way, but not yet ready to be out of mind just yet. "Good afternoon, Weyrwoman," is a cultured greeting, carefully measured. About the time Sunniva selects a tome, and just steps before she might have collided with the candidate, Satiet pauses, her slender fingers extended to pluck out a squat, bound text and midst thumbing through it comes the younger woman's greeting. Her index finger pauses, poised between two pages, then her head tilts, the distrated glaze of her pale eyes veering towards Sunniva and it takes several breaths for clarity to touch those ivory-carved features. It would have to be mere presence, attire, and reputation that betrays Satiet's rank, as the knot that is typically worn by many is consistently and perhaps conspicuously not-present on her slight shoulders. "Yes?" Clarity, yes. Recognition, no. There is no riffling through her chosen book, no unnecessary fussing or fidgeting; the journal joins the borrowed book in her hands, the young woman's shoulders instinctively squaring all the more. Arms fold over the paired books to hug them to her and Sunniva dips her head at the acknowledgement, though her expression remains a carefully constructed neutral. Politely passive, even down to the wording of her question: "If you have a moment, I have a question I would like to ask of you." Something trivial, going by tone alone; like as not, bracing for a response in the negative. Trivial or not, something in the other woman's expression, from the deferential polite passivity to the construction of neutrality; something there causes Satiet's finger to drop into the text to hold her place, and the book to subsequently fall into the fold of her other arm. Humored, perhaps, by this build up, the slender woman shifts from one foot to the next before reflexively pulling her slight frame a little higher, a little taller. Then, there's placement, recognition that draws the subtlest curve across Satiet's lips and lights amusement in her cool-tinted gaze. "Sunniva, is it?" asked, as if the Weyrwoman takes time out of her schedule to learn the names of each and every candidate. Without saying anymore further, in the lift of her chin and the deepening smile, her undivided attention is granted. In response to the smile given, Sunniva returns it with a slow one of her own, initially apprehensive before warming to something comfortable. "Yes, I am," is confirmation of her identity, another gracious inclination of her head being given and her smile finally reaching her sage-hued eyes for a lingering moment. With her request for an audience -- informal though it may be -- having been granted, she doesn't attempt to pad the query with rambling pleasantries ... perhaps out of deference to the fact that the Weyrwoman has Things To Do and to keep her needlessly would be a grievous affront. So: "I was wondering if you might be willing to part with one of your pins, for the scavenger hunt." It's expected. Perhaps another candidate's already come to her for one and failed miserably or succeeded in quiet victory, but what Sunniva asks does not elicit surprise on Satiet's features. Her glossy hair, swept up out of her face, is kept in place with the help of delicate, three-pronged pins, some decorated with tiny glittering stones in blue, others etched with stylized lettering. The placeholder finger drops out of her text, the hand lifting instinctively to trace the curved top of one of her pins, then pauses. "And what," says that cool-pitched, oddly delighted alto, "Will I get in return, Sunniva of Fort Weyr?" Momentarily keen eyes flick to the pins oh-so-briefly, appraisingly, then return to study the other woman's face. The request is not unexpected and elicits a straightforward and impassive, "Whatever it is that you deem suitable, Weyrwoman." Perhaps it's a testament to her upbringing, this semblence of well-trained obedience. Sunniva's lips pull into a thoughtful line, head slightly lowered, but nothing further comes; for who is she to even consider what the Weyrwoman would find sufficient? Insufficient? And, so, it is left in her hands. "Sit with me a while." A gracious hand extends to indicate one of the chairs surrounding one of those work tables. A dry, "If you've the time," is added a half-breath later, amused, though Satiet's already begin to claim one seat, mindful of her skirts and then after relinquishing the text to the table, rearranging them carefully so the chair legs won't drag along the fine fabric. Droll sarcasm colors the woman's alto, "I would hate to keep a hard-working candidate from the impossibly important chores we have you doing. What -do- we have you doing these days?" "Of course." The indicated chair is the one she takes, books being placed on the table that she might better smooth her skirts down and then to sit. Sunniva's posture is immaculate, her hands folding in her lap while she evenly regards the woman. To the comment of time, she explains, "It is my rest day." Plenty of time, then. To the last, her head tilts just so, the corner of her mouth following suit. "Everything from mucking stables to rolling bandages or laundry," is earnestly offered, with just a twist of something else under the surface. "Tunnelsnake hunting is especially delightful," ah and there it is, a glimmer of sardonic humour. An ephemeral smile hints about Satiet's eyes at the sardonic humor, piqued interest lifting her lashes just a fraction more in her seemingly passing regard of Sunniva for seconds later, her pale eyes have dropped to her book, now open to the saved page before her. A gentle push presses down into the center so that the heavy binding will stay, and her hand hovers until it's for certain her measures have worked. Volume fifteen in a series apparently on the history of Tillek's leaders. There's measured silence, where the blue eyes drift along the pages, seeing but not quite seeming to read, before the alto lifts, effortless in its deliberate bland pitch to the candidate: "For a lady such as yourself, do you find such tasks demeaning?" "The filthier ones, yes-" there's a shudder, faint but still perceptible "-but they must be done." Sunniva makes no move to open either of her books, leaving them aside so she might focus on the conversation at hand more acutely. Satiet's choice of reading material is worth a passing glance, enough to attempt to discern the subject matter, before her attention affixes itself anew on the Weyrwoman. "Others -- the laundry, mending, cooking -- are not so dreadful. But," her smile distorts, if only for a second, and the rest is a dutiful, "all of it suffices to keep the hands and mind occupied and make us useful." Satiet's hand falls lax against the open text, idle fingers keeping her place though the pages throw silent protest as they attempt to bend in again. A deliberate injection of curiosity alleviates the bland facade she projects in regard and intonation. "Must be done?" Fine bemusement lifts groomed brows, a touch of a wrinkle marring the corners about her mouth as a sly little smile forms but fails to develop further. "Tell me, Sunniva, why you think these tasks must be done? And by our voluntary candidate class?" "What is the alternative?" Sunniva replies, her expression a strange, if slightly altered, reflection of Satiet's own; lifted brows, a slight downturn of the mouth. "To not do the assigned tasks and be punished or sent home?" That last word snags on a bitter note despite her best intentions; her frown subtly deepens and she continues, "If a candidate is not willing to do the work assigned, then perhaps they are not ready to take on any greater responsibility." A breath is taken, released. "My understanding is that the duties must be done to prepare us as potential riders -- riders cannot shirk their duties, no matter how messy or unpleasant they may be, because they must be done." At first, it seems there's concession in the Weyrwoman's fine-sculpted features; the slight incline of her head, forehead tipping to Sunniva as if granting her the victory of this round. "And of course," lifts that dry voice suddenly, "Being sent home would be the most dire consequence to inflict. Yes?" It's likely she's caught that note of bitterness, the dark lashes that lift allowing her /blue/ eyes to return to studying the candidate. "Oh bullshit." With the expletive comes life to Satiet's face, the bland impassivity shed for a thin-pressed not-a-smile smile and narrowed lashes. "Must be done indeed. If it were up to me, all of you'd stay wherever you are until the eggs were ready to hatch, though more brilliant minds than mine have convinced me that this notion of bonding between likely comrades-at-arms is important. Do you always do as you're told, candidate?" "For some." And, perhaps, if she had a few more turns experience, she might even have perfectly masked the fact that she considers herself among that 'some'. All pretense at feigned innocence is shed upon hearing that single invective; the girl who might have normally looked aghast or covered her mouth with fluttering hands scarcely bats an eye, that gaze unwavering from its mute scrutiny of the other woman. Polite passivity manifests in a shallow smile, while Sunniva's head lifts just a little, listening, acknowledging, and then admitting, "I do when I have no reason or inclination to consider doing otherwise, Weyrwoman." That. That makes Satiet finally smile, thus lightening her sharp features and bringing a sense of laughter to those cold eyes. "I would say, that is probably the most honest you've been with me since sitting here. And do you," furthering her quest to know this girl who would have one of her hairpins, "Find reason or inclination to consider doing otherwise very often? Or do you squelch," such a lovely word, particularly with the slight woman's merry elongation and emphasis, "Those urges?" That assessment elicits a dip of the head and a 'you got me' smile. "At the Hold," she explains, "it served me well to simply do as bid and not to overtly question. Neither my father nor my brother," and that is twisted just /so/ with a disdain that would be uncharacteristic under other circumstances, "thought to question the one who did everything /without/ question." Sunniva's hands finally unlace, splaying briefly before resettling in her lap, "Now, I have begun to learn that there is little reason to squelch," borrowing that word with an appreciative tilt of her head to Satiet, "my desire to question before doing, though actually doing so is easier said than done." If Sunniva's disdain impacts Satiet, it doesn't show on the pristine veneer of her features; held in that self-same smile of satisfaction and continually amused eyes. From the text, allowing the book to, again, fall against itself and thus losing her page, Satiet's hand lifts into her hair, plucking a tiny decorative pin out of the masses of dark curls held up. Then, in front of her and towards Sunniva, the hand uncurls, three thin prongs leading up into a snowflake of miniscule glittering white stones. "I appreciate strength in other women, particularly those who learn the judicious art of questioning the way of things. I do not, however," she adds, not missing a beat despite the sudden blossom of a self-mocking smile on her lips, "Appreciate being questioned myself. I only fulfill one of these scavenger hunt requests each time they're run. Clear skies, candidate." Green eyes track the movement of hand from book and then to hair; observing the selection and presentation of the pin. She stays her hand until that presentation is complete and, only then, reaches to pluck the tiny thing from the other woman's palm. With acceptance comes a gracious, "Thank you, Weyrwoman." For the pin, for the talk, or perhaps only for her time. Sunniva nods to the last, long fingers curling protectively around the bauble. "I shall keep that in mind." No questions asked, only an earnestly soft-spoken, "Clear skies to you as well. Do take care." And, with that, she moves to rise, to gather her book and journal, and then to depart with a soft swishing of skirts, taking any lingering questions with her. |
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