Logs:Too Young
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| RL Date: 1 March, 2009 |
| Who: Tiriana, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Satiet gauges Tiriana's readiness to take over the Weyr and is left unsatisfied. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 1, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: R'uen/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, N'thei/Mentions, Suireh/Mentions, Riahla/Mentions |
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| It is a winter night, 22:02 of day 28, month 1, turn 19 of Interval 10. Under Satiet's tutelage, it's about once a week (sometimes twice, sometimes less) that Satiet invites Tiriana to dinner and while usually this dinner takes place in either of their weyrs, tonight, the goldrider's invitation specifically noted the Snowasis. There, in the far corner of the cavern, easy to miss unless sought, sits the Weyrwoman, with several small plates of appetizers waiting already. Not long after Satiet, Tiriana arrives, giving the bar a quick scan that doesn't turn up Satiet until the bartender helpfully points out her dinner partner. Then, the younger rider sets off, threading between tables and patrons to reach her mentor. "Hi," she says as she nears, pulls up her own seat to join Satiet. Marinated beef skewers, deep fried root vegetables, mini burgers, and a cheese platter are all among the various plates there, no dish holding more than a mouthful or two. From her position, even tucked away in a booth, it's not terribly difficult for Satiet to keep an eye on both entrances and when Tiriana arrives, those pale eyes train immediately onto the taller, dark-haired woman, following her scan and then her approach with those ever-pale /blue/ eyes. More formally, with a forward tip of he head, "Good evening, Tiriana. I trust your day went well?" Now that her partner's here, the napkin is folded into her lap, and only then does Satiet reach for her water glass. "Evening." It's only in answer to Satiet's own formality that Tiriana echoes her more polite greeting. She slides into her seat opposite the elder woman, settling herself down and looking over their dishes before her own eyes settle back on Satiet. "It was all right--a slow day, I think. How was yours?" "I-," the slight woman's mouth purses, then is hitched up in the slightest fashion, as if by a gently tugging fish hook. "-Ran into an old friend. Surprising for the venue." Turning this smile onto Tiriana, it then grows wider. "Do you have friends? People you would trust implicitly with your life? Your secrets?" Probably a stupid question to ask Tiriana, but nonetheless, Satiet waits for a response, even as her fingers reach for and play with the long wooden stick that skewers one of the beef slices. Such a sudden, unexpected question; Tiriana stops, her own hand reaching to select the start of her meal. "Friends?" she repeats, like the entire notion is foreign to her. Frowning, she resumes her motion, taking one of those mini burgers before she shrugs. "Well, yeah, of course. Well--. I don't know that I'd call them /friends/, exactly," says the girl. "I mean, I've got plenty of family, and R'uen and Iovniath and they're all more than enough." "Are they?" There's the barest wistful note in that simple query; a wistfulness that's then shaken away with a turn of her head so those glossy curls swing forward. "I wonder if you ever truly realized what it meant when you Impressed Iovniath." From staring at the wall to sidelong studying the junior goldrider, Satiet keeps tabs on Tiriana's reactions surreptitiously. "Yes. They are," Tiriana says, with a determined nod of her head. "Besides," is tacked on a beat later, "it's like Iovniath says, people in our positions--we can't have friends, we're not like other people. That's what it means, impressing Iovniath. We're different. ... Isn't it?" The more she attempts to explain it, the less certain her expression becomes: mouth pursing up, a glance shot at Satiet, looking for back-up. Candidly, "I don't know that I've ever considered my family or weyrmates more than enough." It's a simply stated fact. "But, I've learned that you make the experience as lonely as you wish and," here Satiet brings that skewer to her lips, but doesn't bite yet, merely letting it rest briefly on her lower lip. "And, I've had a rather lonely experience. You can have friends. It's just harder. Later." Unable to articulate what she wishes, fleeting frustration narrows her eyes and she lets the rest of that irritation out on the poor skewer of beef. Tiriana pokes at her burger, rearranges it a little before she takes her first bite. "I'm not lonely," she insists after swallowing. "I'm--" But it's hard to argue with Satiet's own admission of loneliness, and Tiriana breaks off before ever finishing that statement. Instead, she wrinkles her nose. "Don't know how it could get any harder, at any rate," she decides. One of Satiet's thin, finely groomed brows lift, articulating for her the dry amusement she finds in Tiriana's defensiveness and subsequent thoughts on friendship. The words that pair with it, "When you have the power to cut down and expel anyone you wish, it becomes harder to have a friend midst subordinates," are wry. "Do you think you have power, Tiriana? Influence? If you were to ask one of these top-heavy girls here to jump, would they? And why?" Eating takes a backseat to questioning. "Of course I do," Tiriana answers at once, no thought needed for that question. But the latter explanation earns a glance around, her not-quite-blue eyes tracking the girls who scurry about with drinks. "They would, I know they would. N'thei put me in charge of them, and they know I'd fire them if they didn't do exactly what I told them. Not that I usually get to go firing them," and she sounds just a touch disappointed about that fact. "Hard to beat N'thei to that part." A beat. Satiet stills. "Does it please you to know that they'd jump because they fear you?" Tiriana tilts her head slightly, brows knitting up. "Yes?" she says, a hair quizzical. Is there supposed to be another answer? Those pale, bright eyes glitter above her growing smile. "Do you think they fear you out of respect, or out of mockery?" The skewer is dropped to the empty plate before her, clinking in its descent. "Is it genuine fear, or would they soon as spit on you than listen to you?" At least Satiet's not completely voiding fear as a way to command. "Out of mockery?" Bewilderment. Tiriana shoots another, more suspicious look about at her girls, as though they're poised to spit on her as they speak. "They don't... like me, but I don't think they completely /hate/ me. I mean, it's not like I'm bad at what I do, or I just fire them /completely/ undeservedly." "You don't have to be hated to be mocked. You just have to play the fool in their mind." Though it lacks the intonation of a rebuke, it carries in it the sentiment. The implications that Tiriana plays the fool. And here, Satiet waits, paused to watch the younger woman's reaction. "I am not a fool," Tiriana snaps, her voice sharp. The fear, the worry, creeps in anyway, undercutting her attempt at austerity. "I'm not." Here, Satiet can say honestly with a little shrug that absolves her of guilt, "No one ever said you were." And again, with interest, the pale eyes regard Tiriana and ignores the meal growing cold. "I'm not." Because third time's the charm. Tiriana prods at her food once, but her appetite seems gone as much as Satiet's, and the younger woman looks away, her mouth tightened. Though the workers bustle about, tonight's girls are smart enough to stay well away from that particular table and not interrupt the meal, such as it is; Tiriana, then, is left without either a vent for her anger, or a good way to reassure herself she's not a fool, they really do listen to her. "/They/ all think so, though," she complains now, so quickly convinced. "Tiriana." The name is spoken once, with nothing added to it. No words of wisdom and certainly no reassurances. Instead, the name on its own is said commandingly, as if to stop the litany of thoughts that must be consuming the goldrider and her thrice-spoken denial. Satiet reaches out a hand, across the length of the short table, though fails to reach. Her name, at least, pulls the girl up short, though it does little to cheer her up. Instead, Tiriana takes to pouting, prodding her food around on her plate again before she finally takes another bite, chewing slowly. At least she's silent. "You're pouting." Tonight, Satiet is the master of the obvious. "How old do you have to be before you'll stop? Suireh rarely pouts anymore." As for her other daughter- she's quiet on that subject. "When I stop having stuff to pout over, that's how old," Tiriana answers in probably the most childish way she can think of. "Am I supposed to be happy or something? When you tell me nobody really takes me seriously, /still/?" Satiet laughs. It's oddly genuine in its bubbling quality and shakes the weyrwoman's thin frame. It attracts attention briefly, but whether ordered to before, or just smart, those barmaids avert their eyes quickly and go about their business. Sort of. "Would you take yourself seriously, child?" This is not a question Tiriana's going to answer: much as she plainly wants to declare yes, even her overblown ego can sense how much of a stretch that is now. So she settles instead for a deflated little shrug, and more focus on the half-eaten burger on her plate. Eventualy, "I do, anyway." Even if nobody else follows suit. The girl's silence is enough and Satiet should be satisfied with that realization. Should. "You can pout and throw tantrums in your weyr. You can be as childish as you wish in private. But if there's nothing to respect, you won't ever earn it." Done with eating, though she pushes the plate of cheese forward to Tiriana, she then notes, "You have automatic authority due to your position brought by your dragon. And people are required to respect your position and listen to what you say as outlandish as your requests might be. But rest assured, they will never respect you if you wear your anger and frustration on your sleeve." A beat passes. "Unless being manipulated by your subordinates agrees with you. Luckily," remarks Satiet, "There's no one who has yet learned to do so, or if they do, they have respect for others around you to not do so." Though it's pushed toward her, and becomes the new focus for her attention, Satiet being impossible for her to look at just now, Tiriana takes nothing from the cheese platter. She pushes her own plate away, in fact, leaving the rest of it untouched, in favor of a plaintive, "Well, what else am I supposed to do? I try not to, I do. Really. Except." A shrug finishes it, her hands balling up unconsciously. "Remember," and this is as kind as Satiet's voice has ever been or will likely ever be. Soft-spoken, kept low for the public venue, and as gentle in its advice as it was coolly aloof in its rebuke. "Remember your innate authority. That you're the daughter of a Weyrleader," though that causes a pause therein of itself, a tiny hitch where there might be a bit of disdain, "And are a goldrider at High Reaches Weyr. Your presence speaks for itself. The world is your oyster. Now eat, the soft cheese at the end is a speciality from Nerat I bought today for our dinner." Even Tiriana's mouth twists now at the mention of her parentage, though she nods, conceding Satiet's point. And, as bidden, she reaches for the cheese plate, looking over its offerings before she does indeed settle on a piece of the Nerat cheese and take an experimental nibble of it. "It's good." While Tiriana eats, there's a moment of honest worry that creases lines across Satiet's typically smooth brow and a hint of tired that wrinkles about her eyes. In lieu of eating, she drinks more from her glass, chugging it down now that lectures and advice are dispensed. A barmaid is flagged down for a refill, and returns shortly after conference with the barkeep, with another glass for the weyrwoman. It too is shot down. "Tiriana," again that name, though backed by less command, more resigned sigh, "What would you do with yourself, if you were me? Is it time for me to decide to die yet?" The last pairs with a dry, mocking smile, though whether it's directed inward or to the other goldrider is unclear. To Iovniath, Teonath projects, « She is too young. » It's a little mournful to be a rebuke to the younger queen. « She is far too young. » "If I were--" It's a big question, but just thinking about it makes Tiriana's eyes glaze over, with a tiny little smirk just beginning to form at the corner of her mouth. "Hope Iovniath hurries up and rises, first," is her first answer, though the smartassery still falls a little flat. The dying talk seems to be a little dire even for her generally bloodthirsty mind, however, and she suggests instead, "I mean, you could always just... step down, retire, live your life out in peace and just give advice or something every once in a while. Like one of the old aunties down in the caverns." No dissent from Iovniath, her own touch wistful in return. « She began much later than most, » she offers, with a deferential, « It is good she has yours now. » (Iovniath to Teonath) That makes Satiet laugh, though the sound is less genuine than before. "You don't recommend yourself very highly for the job, do you?" There's a beat of thoughtfulness that draws the Weyrwoman's lashes down to the cheeses. "Tomorrow, you're relieved of shadowing me. Thank you. For your time. But I require someone who is willing to act their age and to learn. Even now, I'm sure you will pout and then throw a rage in your weyr later either to Iovniath, by yourself, or to your weyrmate." She stands, slowly, for all that she's had to drink tonight, and stands regal by the table. Indeed, she even looks a little regretful. "Lujayn isn't quite so much amusing as you. I'll leave you to the rest of the meal. I'm expected elsewhere." To Iovniath, Teonath demures, though the flattery for Satiet whispers rose-streaked breezes throughout her desert mind. « She must learn to stand on her own. Satiet was the same age when she Impressed me. » Dragons, who can do math. Whodda thunk? « You must guide her to stand on her own. » Then, as an aside, just seconds after Satiet decrees Tiriana's new status in the hierarchy of goldriders at the Weyr, the gold notes to gold, « When you find her ready, encourage her to return to Satiet. » Regardless of what Teonath's rider might say to Iovniath's rider. The dismissal visibly hurts Tiriana, her mouth opening but no words coming forth; she quickly looks down and away. "Fine," she says. The rest of her Neratian cheese is dropped onto the plate, beside the burger hardly touched. "Go die, I'd be fine. Good night." Satiet's, "Exactly," is, perhaps cruel, given the point has already been made. But Tiriana's reaction is expected, and when told to go die, the slight woman tenses briefly, before flashing a smile down on the young woman. "Everyone does sometime. Goodnight," she says again, and walks away. To Teonath, Iovniath is nothing but apologetic, muted white against Teonath's rosy deserts. « I will, » she agrees, to both requests. |
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