Logs:Untitled
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| RL Date: 12 November, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 10, Month 3, Turn 18 (Interval 10) |
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| It is a winter early morning, 5:47 of day 10, month 3, turn 18 of Interval 10. The days are still short, but lengthening, and it's full dark when Leova first arrives with her glowbasket and her breakfast-basket. Leaning back against the bench behind her, she has her jacket padding her from its edge, idly watching Vrianth rummage around the hot, hot sands. Now and again she gnaws on the bakers' latest version of cheesebread, a stick with sliced nuts stuck on with glaze, but mostly she just has eyes for her dragon. Atypically late, Satiet's arrival is marked by damp hair, untended, ungroomed, and hurriedly pinned up out of her face. A slip in her body's internal clock? Possible. Tempted by the warmth of her furs rather than their frequently infrequent breakfast dates? Unlikely. But there she comes with the slightest pick up in her usually composed stride, taking the stairs two at a time before her steps slow to a more decorous speed as she spies Leova. Pale eyes fly from the bench the greenrider's claimed to the basket that awaits, then to the green that occupies the hatching sands. "I don't think," Satiet interjects, if her falling bootsteps haven't already warned of Leova of her arrival, "That I've seen dragons other than dams and sires on the sands. How- odd." Bootsteps: Leova twists even as she arches her back, looking up as Vrianth does not, a flick of a smile curving up her mouth in the glowlight when she recognizes the woman. "Is it? So /warm/." And Vrianth's playing, wings back, so very low to the ground as she stalks a particularly ferocious piece of eggshell, enough to put an added, amused spark in the greenrider's eye. But then she's just working on the basket, getting out napkins and the rest, getting the top off the thermos: it's still warm too. Enough to steam. "Hope you slept all right." "I-." Abruptly, Satiet's pale cheeks flush and her gaze quickly strays to the sands, finding Vrianth instead of Leova. Studying the dragon rather than the rider. Keeping her clear, blue eyes fixated on the dusty olivine hide, though her slowed steps gap the distance to where the assistant weyrlingmaster is and with absentminded grace, takes the seat next to the other woman. "I sleep well. It's a rare morning where I find it difficult to get out of bed." This, so obviously, was one of those mornings. "How've you been?" It's Satiet's breaking off that lifts Leova's gaze, and her blush that makes it linger, even as Vrianth /pounces/. Claws out. Immobilizing that piece of shell long enough to snap at it, shake it like she's breaking its neck, only to toss it aside and leave it all behind. But then Satiet's sitting, and Leova's back to messing with the meal, and it's not as though the gleam of Vrianth's hide is owed to anything more than last night's oiling as yet. Indeed, the green's heading for the shadows, so very many shadows around their own glowbasket's light. "Luckier than many," the green's rider observes for matters of sleep and rising, that smile resurfacing. "And good. Teaching them to fly. Feels like a /real/ job." Of luck; the lurking smile-that-failed-to-actually-shape-her-mouth fades. Just a little. "Infrequently. And luck rarely has anything to do with it." Satiet involves herself in rummaging through the basket herself, relaxing her straight-held shoulders as she bends down to dig and pluck out her own cheesebread stick. It rests between her fingers, twirled idly, swinging about her mouth aimless. "As opposed to riding sweeps for your wing? And when the weyrlings grow up?" With her inquiry, the dark-haired woman's attention finally turns to Leova, dark lashes climbing slowly to meet the taller woman's amber eyes. "Have you thought that far yet, or do you live each day as it comes?" "What does, then?" Leova wonders through all that rummaging, through the scattering of sand in the shadows, the sounds of something getting buried. She picks a slice of nut off her own cheesebread, holds it between thumb and forefinger, squints at it like a monocle. And: "As opposed to keeping them from keeping each other up at night with all their nudging and noises," and here she does look back at Satiet, those icy eyes greened by the glows. "We'll go back to a wing. Won't be the same, but reckon it never is." Her mouth parts with an 'ah' withheld and a gaze is easily distracted by the nut Leova inspects so in the end blue fails to meet amber. Hypnotized where the other woman squinted, Satiet is silent. "How is he?" The pronoun is likely deliberately ambiguous, though the next breath, caught as the slighter woman exhales, then adds, "Yyth's rider?" And, as has become usual at such times, Leova doesn't ask again. Instead she waits, holds up the nut so it can be seen, and pops it in her mouth. Satiet's question gets the beginnings of a lift of her brows, and the predictable chewing for all that the nut's not so big as all that, and at last a quick swallow. "Seeing a little of the light," she reports. "But not enough." A shallow breath later, "Word is, his hands are wrinkled as an uncle's." The line of conversation moves too quickly, or in too abstract directions for Satiet, at this hour, in this state, can process and puzzlement draws her brows together as she looks away from the nut to Leova. Pale eyes study that feline face, made tawny by sun and wind, following the lines of the greenrider's jaw and the way it works the nut down. "Wrinkled?" The lilt in and of itself begs clarification. The hand that forgets itself and presses into the bench between the two of them, so close to unintentionally brushing past Leova, speaks of a certain unawareness. Not entirely present. Studied so, Leova half-turns into Satiet's gaze, and even the shadows are quiet. "His hands." The greenrider opens hers, palm up, the cheesebread tucked into one thumb. "P'ax's." And then she's just looking, too. Such distraction that even Leova's response doesn't quite smooth out the puzzlement of Satiet's brow. P'ax. Wrinkled. Hands. Abruptly, the slender woman sinks into her seat, leaning backwards so her shoulder blades press into the bench behind her. The hand so near Leova also draws back, holding the other end of her unmunched cheesestick, and her head tips back, dark hair spilling across the planks of wood. "That saying. That old one. When does pride actually goeth before fall?" Leova's glance follows her back, but no more, and this time doesn't linger: let the woman have some privacy. Does she really want an answer? She gives her an inquiring noise through a carefully-taken bite of cheesebread, even as there begin to be flickers of green out on the edge of the light. Wingtip. Paw. The angle of her head. Parts. Later, there might be gratitude for Leova's silent respect. But now, Satiet reclines there, eyes to a point on the ceiling above before a loll of her head turns her bright eyes onto the other woman. "I fail at entertaining you this morning. Sometimes," her half-apology follows quickly with more words in an attempt to mask the apology part even as her gaze flickers back to the ceiling. "Some days. Those lucky days. I wish I didn't have to wake to face the day. That there's this idea that if I stay in bed, all the dreams and hopes of the night, the stuff that's lulled me to peaceful, protected rest, will remain within reach. Those mornings," her humored alto fills with self-mocking, "I wonder just how many people could envision me as that pathetic." Then Satiet can see the silent surprise written on Leova's profile, the flare of an indrawn breath as the bread's set down, lips parting as her eyes swing back even before her head turns, looking over her shoulder to Satiet again. Her you-don't-have-to is an instinctive murmur before she falls quiet once more. Listening, all the while. And at the end, she's moved to defense: for pathetic, "Human." She doesn't have to. But rather than the simple notion of merely entertaining Leova, she has to, if only for her own sanity. For the smile she can't smile, the confessions she can't make. For all the silence she carries within her behind the who she presents herself to be. To most others. But for Leova's answer, there's finally something; a little smile that curves lazy on her not-cold, not-happy, tempered features. "And how many would believe their Weyrwoman is human?" Satiet pulls herself up and forward, off that backward perch offered by the bench behind them and slowly straightens along the length of her spine. The cheesebread is finally considered and brought to her mouth for a tiny nibble. "Yyth. Does she speak with the others? Does she fare well? Better than her would-be rider?" In reaction, Leova slides her hand just far enough back that she can curve her fingers around the bench's edge, can support herself that way. "Do you want them to," she says quite slowly. "You can change that." Even now. And the greenrider doesn't touch her food, not just yet. Instead, and she says it as though they could be parts of a whole: "Yyth thrives." The near corner of Leova's mouth turns up, just a bit. "Wants to be on top. Sometimes succeeds. Our hope is that seeing the others fly will be," just a breath of a pause, somehow wistful, "Incentive." Does she want to change that? Her tiny chin lifts and the cheesebread falls lax to rest on her lower lip, /as if/ struck by the idea, but then the curve of her mouth crooks crooked and her brow knits, amused. Without words, her answer is no. To change that would-... "Incentive. So much pride." Of P'ax, of humans, of ambitious dragons. "I'm sorry I was late." Such an impromptu beard can't help but grow Leova's smile, enough that she's indulgent of the wordless reply even as she takes it quite seriously, her fingers flicking up: in that case. Satiet knows. But Satiet also apologizes: /Satiet/. Her voice shades it into something beyond them: "Would pride ever apologize?" There's the rub. And the small smile spreads a little more. The slender shoulders hitch upwards, reveling in some internal feeling, that then propels her to her feet. She hasn't partaken of the thermos, but given the already indulgent start to her late morning, this breather between wakefulness and work is soon to be over. "On mornings like this," Satiet responds, careful consideration of her words, "Pride still hasn't gathered its ranks. Yet." On that note, the slight woman stretches forth a hand to brush down Leova's rust-hued hair lightly. "Have a good morning with your real work, weyrlingmaster." Glowing eyes catch and reflect what light there is, down below, seeing and unseen. Teonath's choice rises. Speaks. Touches her own, who raises a self-conscious hand to her own neck. "Then I'll be glad," her Leova says gently, though the smile that's found her lifted face is curved more to one side than the other. And Vrianth melts back into her shadows with her sand and her forgotten shards. "And you. Take it with you, would you?" She offers up the thermos, something for the other woman to warm herself by. The thermos is eyed, then taken with a fluid release of the one hand about her waist. It's then tucked beneath her arm, wordless. She's already said her departures, but there's the slightest drop of her chin -- acknowledgement and gracious acceptance. With a second glance for Vrianth in the shadows on the sands, Satiet too disappears into the shadows of the arcing exit to the bowl. |
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