NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs talk:Something... New

2021-03-05T21:26:44Z

Satiet: Comment provided by Satiet - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Something... New]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Satiet (21:26, 5 March 2021 (UTC)) said... ==

<3

User:Satiet

2015-03-10T00:32:34Z

Satiet:

work in progress...

<center>
{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#9d011b" height="150"
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| ME
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| PHILOSOPHY
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#ffffff"
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. thirty-something . married with small human . Seattle based . mushing since 1995 . played on: pern, anime, wod, others . super hero ability: function on 4 hours of sleep . aka: wine lover, lush, foodie, mom
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. be true to character . be considerate of others . chat about consequences before they happen . communicate . use spell check . don't sweat the small stuff . play what you love playing . love what you play
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|colspan="4" bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | IS...
|-
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Lia.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Lia]]''' (''2012, 2014-'') . greenrider . driven . unapologetic . convinced she's right . truth and justice are more important than compassion
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Suireh.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Suireh]]''' (''2007 - 2010, 2014-'') . harper master . emotionally distant . low self-esteem . mesmerizing performer
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|colspan="4" bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | WAS...
|-
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Lia.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Lia]]''' (''2012, 2014-'') . greenrider . driven . unapologetic . convinced she's right . truth and justice are more important than compassion
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Suireh.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Suireh]]''' (''2007 - 2010, 2014-'') . harper master . emotionally distant . low self-esteem . mesmerizing performer
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | LOG STATS
|-
|{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Satiet}}
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | TAG CLOUD
|-
|{{Cloud | player=Satiet | exclude=Satiet;Suireh;Anvori;Iolene;Mievne;Laiyele;Gisele;Lia;Iabri;Ienavi;Yuliye;Meara;V'teri}}
|}
</center>

== Was... ==

{|
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iolene.jpg]]
|'''[[Iolene]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2012'') Iolene was created for the Exile plot and was the girl next door archetype. It was my first, successful, attempt at playing a nice character who was somehow not boring. (Well, I like to think at any rate.) In spite of her destitute upbringing, she thought the world could be made of rainbows and unicorns and desperately wanted to make it a better place. In an alternate universe, she would have been a happy holder's wife with a huge family, who would have helped the plight of those in need in her holdings, whether her husband liked it or not. Instead, she Impressed a conniving [[Dragon:Sun_and_Stars_Gold_Ysavaeth|dragon]] and ended up dying too young.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-V'teri.jpg]]
|'''[[V'teri]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2011'') V'teri was created for the Exile plot as a catalyst; a short term character. He was meant to ignite the whole thing by starting the search for the exiles and raising questions. My personal track record for playing males is pretty dismal, so I didn't expect him to last too long and... he lived up to that expectation (unfortunately).
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Laiyele.jpg]]
|'''[[Laiyele]]''' (''2011'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Mievne.jpg]]
|'''[[Mievne]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iabri.jpg]]
|'''[[Iabri]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Ienavi.jpg]]
|'''[[Ienavi]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Yuliye.jpg]]
|'''[[Yuliye]]''' (''February 2009 - 2010'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Anvori.jpg]]
|'''[[Anvori]]''' (''September 2008 - 2010'') Anvori was created on a lark as I was getting ready to retire playing Satiet. What would a male, raised in the same small hold as Satiet only a few turns older, turn out like? What kind of idol big brother would Satiet look up to? Having never been good at playing male characters, he was a pleasant surprise at having lasted long at all, which I attribute in large part to [[Leova]]. While, like all of my characters, he's no longer played, I like to think he still plays a large part (if off camera) in certain characters' lives.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Gisele.jpg]]
|'''[[Gisele]]''' (''February 2007 - 2010'') Gisele was created because as a player I needed to break free of the restrictions and reputations playing Satiet had somehow brought with it. She was a harper that wasn't really a ''harper'', being part of a specialty that most people did not regard very highly. She somehow managed to build a tragic history with love and was eventually posted away, when I started to retreat from playing and tying up loose ends, by higher powers when it was suspected she was having an affair (she wasn't) with another journeyman who was married. Oh, [[Rorkes]].
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Satiet.jpg]]
|'''[[Satiet]]''' (''December 16, 2004 - March 24, 2009'') Satiet was one of those characters, I feel, comes as an opportunity only once for a player and needs the right combination of luck (stories, situations, and other players and characters) and time. She was a mean girl who evolved into something more. She was never supposed to survive to get the chance to evolve.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Meara.jpg]]
|'''[[Meara]]''' (''1998 - 2010'') 
|}

User:Satiet

2015-03-10T00:24:56Z

Satiet:

work in progress...

<center>
{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#9d011b" height="150"
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| ME
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| PHILOSOPHY
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#ffffff"
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. thirty-something . married with small human . Seattle based . mushing since 1995 . played on: pern, anime, wod, others . super hero ability: function on 4 hours of sleep . aka: wine lover, lush, foodie, mom
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. be true to character . be considerate of others . chat about consequences before they happen . communicate . use spell check . don't sweat the small stuff . play what you love playing . love what you play
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|colspan="4" bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | IS...
|-
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Lia.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Lia]]''' (''2012, 2014-'') . greenrider . driven . unapologetic . convinced she's right . truth and justice are more important than compassion
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Suireh.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Suireh]]''' (''2007 - 2010, 2014-'') . harper master . emotionally distant . low self-esteem . mesmerizing performer
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | LOG STATS
|-
|{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Satiet}}
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | TAG CLOUD
|-
|{{Cloud | player=Satiet | exclude=Satiet;Suireh;Anvori;Iolene;Mievne;Laiyele;Gisele;Lia;Iabri;Ienavi;Yuliye;Meara;V'teri}}
|}
</center>

== Was... ==

{|
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iolene.jpg]]
|'''[[Iolene]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2012'') Iolene was created for the Exile plot and was the girl next door archetype. It was my first, successful, attempt at playing a nice character who was somehow not boring. (Well, I like to think at any rate.) In spite of her destitute upbringing, she thought the world could be made of rainbows and unicorns and desperately wanted to make it a better place. In an alternate universe, she would have been a happy holder's wife with a huge family, who would have helped the plight of those in need in her holdings, whether her husband liked it or not. Instead, she Impressed a conniving [[Dragon:Sun_and_Stars_Gold_Ysavaeth|dragon]] and ended up dying too young.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-V'teri.jpg]]
|'''[[V'teri]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2011'') V'teri was created for the Exile plot as a catalyst; a short term character. He was meant to ignite the whole thing by starting the search for the exiles and raising questions. My personal track record for playing males is pretty dismal, so I didn't expect him to last too long and... he lived up to that expectation (unfortunately).
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Laiyele.jpg]]
|'''[[Laiyele]]''' (''2011'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Mievne.jpg]]
|'''[[Mievne]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iabri.jpg]]
|'''[[Iabri]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Ienavi.jpg]]
|'''[[Ienavi]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Yuliye.jpg]]
|'''[[Yuliye]]''' (''February 2009 - 2010'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Anvori.jpg]]
|'''[[Anvori]]''' (''September 2008 - 2010'') Anvori was created on a lark as I was getting ready to retire playing Satiet. What would a male, raised in the same small hold as Satiet only a few turns older, turn out like? What kind of idol big brother would Satiet look up to? Having never been good at playing male characters, he was a pleasant surprise at having lasted long at all, which I attribute in large part to [[Leova]]. While, like all of my characters, he's no longer played, I like to think he still plays a large part (if off camera) in certain characters' lives.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Gisele.jpg]]
|'''[[Gisele]]''' (''February 2007 - 2010'') Gisele was created because as a player I needed to break free of the restrictions and reputations playing Satiet had somehow brought with it. She was a harper that wasn't really a ''harper'', being part of a specialty that most people did not regard very highly. She somehow managed to build a tragic history with love and was eventually posted away, when I started to retreat from playing and tying up loose ends, by higher powers when it was suspected she was having an affair (she wasn't) with another journeyman who was married. Oh, [[Rorkes]].
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Satiet.jpg]]
|'''[[Satiet]]''' (''December 16, 2004 - March 24, 2009'') Satiet was one of those characters, I feel, comes as an opportunity only once for a player and needs the right combination of luck (stories, situations, and other players and characters) and time. She was a mean girl who evolved into something more. She was never supposed to survive to get the chance to evolve.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Meara.jpg]]
|'''[[Meara]]''' (''1998 - 2010'') 
|}

User:Satiet

2015-03-10T00:21:56Z

Satiet:

work in progress...

<center>
{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#9d011b" height="150"
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| ME
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| PHILOSOPHY
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#ffffff"
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. thirty-something . married with small human . Seattle based . mushing since 1995 . played on: pern, anime, wod, others . super hero ability: function on 4 hours of sleep . aka: wine lover, lush, foodie, mom
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. be true to character . be considerate of others . chat about consequences before they happen . communicate . use spell check . don't sweat the small stuff . play what you love playing . love what you play
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|colspan="4" bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | IS...
|-
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Lia.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Lia]]''' (''2012, 2014-'') Greenrider. Driven. Unapologetic. Convinced she's right. Truth and justice are more important than compassion.
|width="10%" valign="top" | [[Image:Face-Suireh.jpg]]
|width="40%" valign="top" | '''[[Suireh]]''' (''2007 - 2010, 2014-'') Harper Master. Seems to be self-confident, but seriously lacking in self-esteem. Aspires towards greatness, but always feels she falls short. Unrelenting perfectionism. Emotionally distant. Daughter of ''somebodies'', thinks herself a nobody
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | LOG STATS
|-
|{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Satiet}}
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | TAG CLOUD
|-
|{{Cloud | player=Satiet | exclude=Satiet;Suireh;Anvori;Iolene;Mievne;Laiyele;Gisele;Lia;Iabri;Ienavi;Yuliye;Meara;V'teri}}
|}
</center>

== Was... ==

{|
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iolene.jpg]]
|'''[[Iolene]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2012'') Iolene was created for the Exile plot and was the girl next door archetype. It was my first, successful, attempt at playing a nice character who was somehow not boring. (Well, I like to think at any rate.) In spite of her destitute upbringing, she thought the world could be made of rainbows and unicorns and desperately wanted to make it a better place. In an alternate universe, she would have been a happy holder's wife with a huge family, who would have helped the plight of those in need in her holdings, whether her husband liked it or not. Instead, she Impressed a conniving [[Dragon:Sun_and_Stars_Gold_Ysavaeth|dragon]] and ended up dying too young.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-V'teri.jpg]]
|'''[[V'teri]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2011'') V'teri was created for the Exile plot as a catalyst; a short term character. He was meant to ignite the whole thing by starting the search for the exiles and raising questions. My personal track record for playing males is pretty dismal, so I didn't expect him to last too long and... he lived up to that expectation (unfortunately).
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Laiyele.jpg]]
|'''[[Laiyele]]''' (''2011'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Mievne.jpg]]
|'''[[Mievne]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iabri.jpg]]
|'''[[Iabri]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Ienavi.jpg]]
|'''[[Ienavi]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Yuliye.jpg]]
|'''[[Yuliye]]''' (''February 2009 - 2010'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Anvori.jpg]]
|'''[[Anvori]]''' (''September 2008 - 2010'') Anvori was created on a lark as I was getting ready to retire playing Satiet. What would a male, raised in the same small hold as Satiet only a few turns older, turn out like? What kind of idol big brother would Satiet look up to? Having never been good at playing male characters, he was a pleasant surprise at having lasted long at all, which I attribute in large part to [[Leova]]. While, like all of my characters, he's no longer played, I like to think he still plays a large part (if off camera) in certain characters' lives.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Gisele.jpg]]
|'''[[Gisele]]''' (''February 2007 - 2010'') Gisele was created because as a player I needed to break free of the restrictions and reputations playing Satiet had somehow brought with it. She was a harper that wasn't really a ''harper'', being part of a specialty that most people did not regard very highly. She somehow managed to build a tragic history with love and was eventually posted away, when I started to retreat from playing and tying up loose ends, by higher powers when it was suspected she was having an affair (she wasn't) with another journeyman who was married. Oh, [[Rorkes]].
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Satiet.jpg]]
|'''[[Satiet]]''' (''December 16, 2004 - March 24, 2009'') Satiet was one of those characters, I feel, comes as an opportunity only once for a player and needs the right combination of luck (stories, situations, and other players and characters) and time. She was a mean girl who evolved into something more. She was never supposed to survive to get the chance to evolve.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Meara.jpg]]
|'''[[Meara]]''' (''1998 - 2010'') 
|}

User:Satiet

2015-03-09T22:27:53Z

Satiet:

work in progress...

<center>
{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#9d011b" height="150"
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| ME
| style="width: 50%; color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100"| PHILOSOPHY
|-valign="top" bgcolor="#ffffff"
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. thirty-something . married with small human . Seattle based . mushing since 1995 . played on: pern, anime, wod, others . super hero ability: function on 4 hours of sleep . aka: wine lover, lush, foodie, mom
| style="width:50%; color: #000000; text-align: justified;" valign="top"|. be true to character . be considerate of others . chat about consequences before they happen . communicate . use spell check . don't sweat the small stuff . play what you love playing . love what you play
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|colspan="2" bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | IS
|-
|width="100" | [[Image:Face-Lia.jpg]]
|valign="top" | '''[[Lia]]''' (''2012, 2014-'') 
|}

{| style="background-color: #ffffff; color=#000000; text-align: justified;" width=80% cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10"
|-
|colspan="2" bgcolor="#9d011b" style="color: white;text-align: center" valign="middle" height="100" | TAG CLOUD
|-
|colspan="2" | {{Cloud | player=Satiet | exclude=Satiet;Suireh;Anvori;Iolene;Mievne;Laiyele;Gisele;Lia;Iabri;Ienavi;Yuliye;Meara;V'teri}}
|}
</center>

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Satiet}}

== I Play ==
{|
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Lia.jpg]]
|'''[[Lia]]''' (''2012, 2014-'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Suireh.jpg]]
|'''[[Suireh]]''' (''2007 - 2010, 2014-'') Suireh. unlike her mother, was a ''somebody'' from birth as the daughter of ''somebodies''. She aspires to be like her mother, even though she might not actually be suited to that temperament. In many ways, she suffers from low self-esteem, having failed to follow in her parents' footsteps as, not only dragonriders, but Weyr leaders, and sometimes fails to realize just how talented of a harper she could be. Currently, she's a vocal apprentice off-camera at Harper Hall, coming to visit High Reaches as regularly as she's allowed. She's studying for her journeyman exams/boards, naively unaware of what a politically divisive history she carries and how that could be exploited.
|}

== I Played ==

{|
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iolene.jpg]]
|'''[[Iolene]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2012'') Iolene was created for the Exile plot and was the girl next door archetype. It was my first, successful, attempt at playing a nice character who was somehow not boring. (Well, I like to think at any rate.) In spite of her destitute upbringing, she thought the world could be made of rainbows and unicorns and desperately wanted to make it a better place. In an alternate universe, she would have been a happy holder's wife with a huge family, who would have helped the plight of those in need in her holdings, whether her husband liked it or not. Instead, she Impressed a conniving [[Dragon:Sun_and_Stars_Gold_Ysavaeth|dragon]] and ended up dying too young.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-V'teri.jpg]]
|'''[[V'teri]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2011'') V'teri was created for the Exile plot as a catalyst; a short term character. He was meant to ignite the whole thing by starting the search for the exiles and raising questions. My personal track record for playing males is pretty dismal, so I didn't expect him to last too long and... he lived up to that expectation (unfortunately).
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Laiyele.jpg]]
|'''[[Laiyele]]''' (''2011'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Mievne.jpg]]
|'''[[Mievne]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iabri.jpg]]
|'''[[Iabri]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Ienavi.jpg]]
|'''[[Ienavi]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Yuliye.jpg]]
|'''[[Yuliye]]''' (''February 2009 - 2010'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Anvori.jpg]]
|'''[[Anvori]]''' (''September 2008 - 2010'') Anvori was created on a lark as I was getting ready to retire playing Satiet. What would a male, raised in the same small hold as Satiet only a few turns older, turn out like? What kind of idol big brother would Satiet look up to? Having never been good at playing male characters, he was a pleasant surprise at having lasted long at all, which I attribute in large part to [[Leova]]. While, like all of my characters, he's no longer played, I like to think he still plays a large part (if off camera) in certain characters' lives.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Gisele.jpg]]
|'''[[Gisele]]''' (''February 2007 - 2010'') Gisele was created because as a player I needed to break free of the restrictions and reputations playing Satiet had somehow brought with it. She was a harper that wasn't really a ''harper'', being part of a specialty that most people did not regard very highly. She somehow managed to build a tragic history with love and was eventually posted away, when I started to retreat from playing and tying up loose ends, by higher powers when it was suspected she was having an affair (she wasn't) with another journeyman who was married. Oh, [[Rorkes]].
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Satiet.jpg]]
|'''[[Satiet]]''' (''December 16, 2004 - March 24, 2009'') Satiet was one of those characters, I feel, comes as an opportunity only once for a player and needs the right combination of luck (stories, situations, and other players and characters) and time. She was a mean girl who evolved into something more. She was never supposed to survive to get the chance to evolve.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Meara.jpg]]
|'''[[Meara]]''' (''1998 - 2010'') 
|}

Azaylia/Mentions

2015-03-02T07:17:43Z

Satiet:

Logs talk:Interference and Unwelcome Revelations

2015-02-25T21:26:46Z

Satiet: damn touch screens guy the wrong button. Undo revision 42946 by Satiet (talk)

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Interference and Unwelcome Revelations]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Edyis (05:03, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Well that escalated quickly. Ahem.
==Roz (09:58, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Oh, man. Mind /blown/. Irianke, what. D:

I loved this scene. Irianke's interest, and Quinlys and Telavi's talk afterwards.

Just.. /man/. So good.
==Azaylia (17:30, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Irianke's interest was surprising, but also totally makes sense-- especially given her own experiences. Of course I ''love'' Quinlys and Telavi's talk at the end, it's so very 'them', with Quinlys' outrage and Telavi's loyalty. Oh captain my captain~ <3
==K'zin (14:56, 25 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

[http://hrweyr.net/User:K%27zin#Log_Comments|<3]

K'zin is gonna be so unhappy. (Assuming someone tells him.)

Logs talk:Interference and Unwelcome Revelations

2015-02-25T20:51:15Z

Satiet: Reverted edits by K'zin (talk) to last revision by Dragonshy

Yuliye

2015-02-20T04:57:49Z

Satiet:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Yuliye.jpg
|position=Lady Igen (Former) Lady High Reaches Hold Lord Aughan's niece
|birthplace=Crom Hold
|children=Andoris
|friends=Joremy, husband, Lord Igen
|playedby=Camilla Belle
|livejournal=[http://looseskirts.livejournal.com/ looseskirts]
|face=blank.jpg
|name=Yuliye
|dragon=
}}
== Description ==

== WYSK ==

* Niece of Lord Aughan of Crom, she was his heir apparent until her surprise marriage to Lord Braeden of High Reaches Hold.
* She doesn't seem to have been thrilled by that match, but at least it was a more impressive one than her first marriage (he died).
* Not that the second lasted all that long: Braeden stepped down in favor of Devaki, and now Yu is Lady Holder no longer.
* Spent some time at High Reaches Weyr, starting in Turn 18. Was supposedly 'besties' with Tiriana.
* Rumor has it she's a flirt.
* Actually, rumor has it she's a slut.
* Rumors aren't very nice.
* But sometimes they're true.

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Blood]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:Crom_Hold]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Hold]]
[[Category:NPCs]]
{{Character-Categories}}

File:Bunny.jpg

2015-02-17T09:37:28Z

Satiet:

Logs talk:A Day in the Life of a Record Keeper

2015-02-17T09:37:00Z

Satiet:

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:A Day in the Life of a Record Keeper]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Roz (21:26, 16 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

That escalated quickly. :x
==Suireh (04:35, 17 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

[[File:Bunny.jpg]]

Logs talk:A Day in the Life of a Record Keeper

2015-02-17T09:36:39Z

Satiet:

Logs talk:A Day in the Life of a Record Keeper

2015-02-17T09:35:45Z

Satiet: Comment provided by Suireh - via ArticleComments extension

Logs:AU: Thirty-six Minus Thirty-One Equals Five

2015-02-01T06:31:06Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Iolene, K'del
|what=In an alternate universe where the bad stuff never happened... K'del might actually be not world weary.
|where=Healer Hall
|custom=
|day=6
|month=12
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.27
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=We were shooting the breeze about what characters would do this experiment and thought it'd be interesting to see how K'del and Iolene would have dealt with it. The way it ended wasn't really expected, and after chatting, we figured they would have been the type of couple that'd tell each other everything. (The irony is not lost.)
|icons-new=Icon K'del.jpg, Icon iolene.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=<OOC> Iolene says, "http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html?_r=0"

Enwei ushers them into the room, all smiles. How illustrious for her research project: two Weyrleaders, weyrmated at that, willing to participate. "The instructions are in here," she sets, face down, a sheaf of hides. "Follow them all, and tomorrow, you'll come back for individual interviews with me."

It's not that K'del is nervous (well, no; he is) so much that this is ''weird''; he's cautious in the way he glances at Enwei, though he attempts a smile, a smile that broadens, faintly (despite the lines on his forehead) as he glances at Iolene. Sitting is a good start, and so is reaching for the papers. "This is going to be weird, isn't it," he says, a solid attempt at neutrality.

The blonde head tips forward, a smile floating to her lips and her shoulders bunching in the giddy excitement of a younger woman, not that she's all that old herself. "Shush, you. It'll be fun. And how often do we get a night away from the Weyr, work, and Kasalene?" A beat passes. "I still think we should have named her Araia instead." Enwei exits, smug. "What's it say?"

It's an old 'argument;' K'del's smile is suitably indulgent, and so is his fond, "Yes, dearest. You're right, I'm wrong, and... shells." That last is clearly because he's glanced at the page, blue eyes quickly scanning the first of the (so very, very many) questions. "Okay. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?"

"You." Iolene's answer is prompt, her foot nudges underneath the table and travels up his calf and curls bare toes against his knee. Somewhere in between arriving and sitting down, she's discarded her shoes. "But if it's a dinner party with you, me, and someone else? Ysavaeth, as a person. Not as a dragon."

K'del's eyes dance, meeting Io's across the table; his mouth curves into a broader, contented smile. "Ysavaeth as a person... that ''would'' be interesting. It's not wrong that I don't think Cadejoth would be as interesting? Maybe it's just he's not a conversationalist." It doesn't stop his fondness; Cadejoth's perfect, just as he is. "For me... shells, if I've already got you, it'd have to be a historical figure of some kind. A Masterharper for turns and turns ago, maybe. Or someone from High Reaches' past." Too many options.

"Oh, someone not alive?" Iolene purses her lips at this shift in thought and promptly changes her mind, "Lord Beradin." She doesn't give reason and the toes at his knees slide down his shin a little.

Once upon a time, that mention might have caused K'del's expression to falter; now, it does not. He laughs; "Okay, yes, that ''would'' be interesting." He doesn't react - not obviously - to those toes, though Io will know well that he's well aware of them; valiantly ignore! For now. "Next one. Would you like to be famous? In what way? Famous-er, I guess. Can tell you that one immediately: no. No thanks."

"Yes." It's an answer that's at odds with K'del's and for that reason alone Iolene's surprise melts into a scrunched face of apology. "I just feel... the more well known I become, the less stigma there would be to those who are unlawfully exiled. And that... people might look less oddly upon an exile as Lord. I think any exile that wants to should become prominent in any field they choose." A beat. "Or something." The toes climb up again, and the other foot too. They both rest, toe-tip against knee, though one twirls funny against his inner thigh.

K'del seems more curious than surprised by Iolene's answer, his head slowly beginning to nod as she continues - and look, there's only the faintest twitch at mention of the exile Lord, or, for that matter, exiles in general. Meanwhile, the fingers of one hand dart beneath the table, reaching to idly glide their nails across one of those feet. "That's... mm. Can see your reasoning there. We ought to spend more time out and about." And less time at home. Or here in this room, possibly. "Just not... think we ought to push to get your clutchmates transferred around the place?"

"No!" Horrified, Iolene's right foot pushes at K'del's knee. "No. They should stay at High Reaches. E'gin is on a promising track towards wingleadership and-... What's next." Repulsed by the very notion that her comrades would be sent away, she changes the subject.

K'del's knee pushes back, and then relents. His expression is mute apology, and, hastily, he glances back at the questions in front of them. "Do you ever," he reads, "rehearse what you're goint to say before you say it to someone?"

Iolene's mouth gaps open. Her secret shame. Then there's a shamed laughter and a flushing of cheeks. "What about you?"

"Never." But K'del can't keep his face straight; besides, it's easier to acknowledge it when she already has. "Less than I used to, though. Maybe because I practice on you, sometimes, and because..." Because. Just because. Regardless? "Your secret's safe with me, promise. I'll never tell." He ''will'' tickle the bottom of her foot, though. Also, "Used to practice arguments with Tiriana, only I always won them in my head, and then she'd react in a completely ''different'' off-the-handle kind of way." Useless.

"Well, that's cheating," says Iolene, her head shaking while moving forward with pursed lips. She airkisses the Weyrleader and then slips far back into the backing of her seat and slouches to one side. This action is followed by her foot swiftly retreating. Not the tickles! "K'del?"

K'del sticks out his tongue in response, removing his fingers to the table: safe distance. "Mmm?"

The foot returns, quicker in its travel up his leg and slips between them to nestle ''right there''. "I love you." The smile Iolene spares for K'del is one that's solely reserved for him, spent on pillows; a soft, meltingly serene and content smile.

On the table, K'del's fingers twitch, as if they'd ''so'' like to dive back towards that foot, or perhaps even somewhere more interesting. Instead, that smile gets returned, wholehearted and unapologetically. "I love you too," he tells her. "Forever. For ''always''." He may, now in the process of staring into her eyes, have forgotten about the questions.

She'll remind him. The turns as Weyrwoman have made small shifts, including that of task-oriented. (Otherwise people nag her and take away from her family time.) "What's next, darling," is what her voice says. Leg stretching and toe wiggling deeper between his legs is what her body says. "We're never going to make it out of here."

K'del's body? It says yes. Reluctantly, however, he turns his attention back on the questions, clearly his throat carefully - focus! - before he says, "Oh. Right. Think we could pretend, and just go home?" Beat. "Sorry. Next question: what would constitute a perfect day for you? That's easy. All family, no interruptions." His brows raise: yes?

"No family. No interrupts," is her mildly spoken, paired with a devious little smile, correction. Iolene then bursts into laughter and reaches forward to pluck the sheets from K'del. She moves on, perhaps assuming that that's his answer as well. "When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?"

K'del, who also begins to laugh, eyes shining with mirth, offers no resistance to the theft of those sheets. He can't argue; or, if he can, he chooses not to. It's probably the former. "Sing? Shells, I don't know. Not in the habit of singing to myself, really, and-- well, to Kasalene, maybe. That's probably more recent?" He rubs at his nose, head shaking. "Though, as we all know, she'd rather hear my stories than my songs."

Iolene trills off some lines to a raunchy sea song that implies heavily what she plans to do to him later, and dons a smug ''there, I win'' expression. The sheets fall from her hands as she reaches out to catch his elbow. "Let's do some laundry."

Caught by the elbow, K'del raises his brows in reply, indicating the table in an obvious gesture of: Here? Now? The point of the exercise is to bring people together, right?!

Iolene has the decency, at least, to squeeze that elbow and then release it in order to run to the doorway and peer out. When she turns, there's an impish smile on her face and she has far too much practice in dropping her riding leathers. Yes. And... yes.

The pages get scattered - and lain upon - over the course of what happens next. K'del's conscientious enough to try and keep them from making ''too'' much noise; but that's about it. "Reckon," he says, sometime later, "I know everything I need to know about you already. Mm?"

Iolene isn't much for quiet, and every time he shushes her, there's a little giggle and then more forgetting. "Mmmmmm. Let's make another one. Another baby. I think Azaylia could handle being acting for a little while. Let's go away and make another one." The pretty pretty please is implied. "Mmm. Let's go home and not let anyone know we're back at least until tomorrow morning." She could go again but not here.

Pretty, pretty please? K'del's answer to that is to lean in for a kiss, twining his fingers around some of her hair before he tucks it behind her ear. "You know I can't deny you anything," he says, by which he clearly means yes. And yes. And yes. "Sure you want to go home, though? Easier to hide if the dragons aren't on the ledge."

"I'll go wherever you want, lover," Iolene reaches up to catch that hand at her hair and ear, twining her fingers in them and drawing them down to her, currently, babyless abdomen. "Let's go. We can apologize to Enwei later."

K'del presses his hand flat to that abdomen; a hopeful gesture. A moment later, however, he glances around, abashed, quite as if he's only just remembered where they are, and what they were supposed to be doing. "Maybe we can round her up some new participants," he suggests, as he reaches for his pants. "As apology." With a note pinned to their chests: Sorry we got distracted have some other people who won't mess up your study, instead.

Iolene works more slowly to button up her blouse, still reclined on that table. "Maybe we should send in Quinlys and H'kon."

K'del stands, though it's as he's got one leg of his pants on, his foot reaching for the other, that Iolene makes that suggestion. He just about falls over, reaching for the table to stable himself. "''Shells''," he says, between peels of laughter. "I'd want to be a fly on that wall."

"Maybe ''I'' should try again with H'kon." Iolene muses aloud, seemingly unaware of the laughter emitting from her weyrmate. "Oh, can you hand me my pants. I think I saw them under your seat somehow."

It takes K'del a few more seconds to compose himself enough to reply, and a few more to come up with the pants. "Right now, the idea of H'kon managing to do it, successfully, with ''anyone'' is a bit beyond me," he admits, reclaiming the pants. It's after he's handed them over that he adds, "But maybe it'd be good for him."

"Do it?" Iolene, ever able to degrade humor to the lowest common denominator waggles her brows suggestively at her mate. "Is that a challenge, sir?" She leaves the top two buttons undone and her hair tousled, but does deign to put on her pants in such a fashion she's wiggling her bare bottom at K'del as she pulls them on. So. Slowly.

K'del reaches forward, aiming to draw Iolene up against him, bare bottom and all; clothing be damned, or at least briefly postponed. "No," he says, drawing up one hand to caress beneath her blouse. "You'd give the man a heart attack, and I need him where he is. And I need ''you'' right where you are." If possibly not in this particular room.

There's a sultry giggle, triumph bright in the sound. She's won some perceived battle. One arm snakes up and backward to curl about K'del's neck and caress the hair there. "We should really go. I don't think even between will quench this." It might be a wonder if she manages to walk out with her pants actually on.

The battle is all hers; K'del admits defeat in the way he presses a kiss to her head, and then, reluctantly, releases her again. "Pants," is his reminder. He just needs to finish with his shirt-- and then his boots. And ''then'', promise, they can really get out of here. "Besides, I don't think I want to accidentally run into Enwei on her way out. Healers are ''scary''." Flee! Flee the nosy healer!

"Right. Pants." Iolene murmurs around her mouth trying to get one more kiss. Released, without a hand to her chest, a sigh exhales. "Maybe I'd change my answer. If I could just be me, and you, and family, I don't think I'd want to be famous ever."

The kiss is granted; K'del's not in the habit of denying them. He's surprised, though, enough that he pauses in the buttoning of his shirt, by that latter comment. "If it could be just that," he says, "I can't imagine ever wanting anything else." There's a smile in his voice; on his face, too. "Love you, Io."

"Of course you do." ''Silly.'' She doesn't bother with her belt, letting it stay loose about her waist and reaches to take K'del's hand. The door creaks open and she peeks out and tries to lead in a quick getaway.

Hand-in-hand, K'del hesitates for a moment, and then launches them into a run. Just in case. The end.

Enwei comes back eventually and sighs at the telltale signs of amuck.

''Dragonriders!''
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=AU Logs, AU Logs
}}

Logs:AU: Thirty-six Minus Thirty-One Equals Five

2015-02-01T06:30:03Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Iolene, K'del
|what=In an alternate universe where the bad stuff never happened... K'del might actually be not world weary.
|where=Healer Hall
|custom=
|day=6
|month=12
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.27
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=We were shooting the breeze about what characters would do this experiment and thought it'd be interesting to see how K'del and Iolene would have dealt with it. The way it ended wasn't really expected, and after chatting, we figured they would have been the type of couple that'd tell each other everything.
|icons-new=Icon K'del.jpg, Icon iolene.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=<OOC> Iolene says, "http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html?_r=0"

Enwei ushers them into the room, all smiles. How illustrious for her research project: two Weyrleaders, weyrmated at that, willing to participate. "The instructions are in here," she sets, face down, a sheaf of hides. "Follow them all, and tomorrow, you'll come back for individual interviews with me."

It's not that K'del is nervous (well, no; he is) so much that this is ''weird''; he's cautious in the way he glances at Enwei, though he attempts a smile, a smile that broadens, faintly (despite the lines on his forehead) as he glances at Iolene. Sitting is a good start, and so is reaching for the papers. "This is going to be weird, isn't it," he says, a solid attempt at neutrality.

The blonde head tips forward, a smile floating to her lips and her shoulders bunching in the giddy excitement of a younger woman, not that she's all that old herself. "Shush, you. It'll be fun. And how often do we get a night away from the Weyr, work, and Kasalene?" A beat passes. "I still think we should have named her Araia instead." Enwei exits, smug. "What's it say?"

It's an old 'argument;' K'del's smile is suitably indulgent, and so is his fond, "Yes, dearest. You're right, I'm wrong, and... shells." That last is clearly because he's glanced at the page, blue eyes quickly scanning the first of the (so very, very many) questions. "Okay. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?"

"You." Iolene's answer is prompt, her foot nudges underneath the table and travels up his calf and curls bare toes against his knee. Somewhere in between arriving and sitting down, she's discarded her shoes. "But if it's a dinner party with you, me, and someone else? Ysavaeth, as a person. Not as a dragon."

K'del's eyes dance, meeting Io's across the table; his mouth curves into a broader, contented smile. "Ysavaeth as a person... that ''would'' be interesting. It's not wrong that I don't think Cadejoth would be as interesting? Maybe it's just he's not a conversationalist." It doesn't stop his fondness; Cadejoth's perfect, just as he is. "For me... shells, if I've already got you, it'd have to be a historical figure of some kind. A Masterharper for turns and turns ago, maybe. Or someone from High Reaches' past." Too many options.

"Oh, someone not alive?" Iolene purses her lips at this shift in thought and promptly changes her mind, "Lord Beradin." She doesn't give reason and the toes at his knees slide down his shin a little.

Once upon a time, that mention might have caused K'del's expression to falter; now, it does not. He laughs; "Okay, yes, that ''would'' be interesting." He doesn't react - not obviously - to those toes, though Io will know well that he's well aware of them; valiantly ignore! For now. "Next one. Would you like to be famous? In what way? Famous-er, I guess. Can tell you that one immediately: no. No thanks."

"Yes." It's an answer that's at odds with K'del's and for that reason alone Iolene's surprise melts into a scrunched face of apology. "I just feel... the more well known I become, the less stigma there would be to those who are unlawfully exiled. And that... people might look less oddly upon an exile as Lord. I think any exile that wants to should become prominent in any field they choose." A beat. "Or something." The toes climb up again, and the other foot too. They both rest, toe-tip against knee, though one twirls funny against his inner thigh.

K'del seems more curious than surprised by Iolene's answer, his head slowly beginning to nod as she continues - and look, there's only the faintest twitch at mention of the exile Lord, or, for that matter, exiles in general. Meanwhile, the fingers of one hand dart beneath the table, reaching to idly glide their nails across one of those feet. "That's... mm. Can see your reasoning there. We ought to spend more time out and about." And less time at home. Or here in this room, possibly. "Just not... think we ought to push to get your clutchmates transferred around the place?"

"No!" Horrified, Iolene's right foot pushes at K'del's knee. "No. They should stay at High Reaches. E'gin is on a promising track towards wingleadership and-... What's next." Repulsed by the very notion that her comrades would be sent away, she changes the subject.

K'del's knee pushes back, and then relents. His expression is mute apology, and, hastily, he glances back at the questions in front of them. "Do you ever," he reads, "rehearse what you're goint to say before you say it to someone?"

Iolene's mouth gaps open. Her secret shame. Then there's a shamed laughter and a flushing of cheeks. "What about you?"

"Never." But K'del can't keep his face straight; besides, it's easier to acknowledge it when she already has. "Less than I used to, though. Maybe because I practice on you, sometimes, and because..." Because. Just because. Regardless? "Your secret's safe with me, promise. I'll never tell." He ''will'' tickle the bottom of her foot, though. Also, "Used to practice arguments with Tiriana, only I always won them in my head, and then she'd react in a completely ''different'' off-the-handle kind of way." Useless.

"Well, that's cheating," says Iolene, her head shaking while moving forward with pursed lips. She airkisses the Weyrleader and then slips far back into the backing of her seat and slouches to one side. This action is followed by her foot swiftly retreating. Not the tickles! "K'del?"

K'del sticks out his tongue in response, removing his fingers to the table: safe distance. "Mmm?"

The foot returns, quicker in its travel up his leg and slips between them to nestle ''right there''. "I love you." The smile Iolene spares for K'del is one that's solely reserved for him, spent on pillows; a soft, meltingly serene and content smile.

On the table, K'del's fingers twitch, as if they'd ''so'' like to dive back towards that foot, or perhaps even somewhere more interesting. Instead, that smile gets returned, wholehearted and unapologetically. "I love you too," he tells her. "Forever. For ''always''." He may, now in the process of staring into her eyes, have forgotten about the questions.

She'll remind him. The turns as Weyrwoman have made small shifts, including that of task-oriented. (Otherwise people nag her and take away from her family time.) "What's next, darling," is what her voice says. Leg stretching and toe wiggling deeper between his legs is what her body says. "We're never going to make it out of here."

K'del's body? It says yes. Reluctantly, however, he turns his attention back on the questions, clearly his throat carefully - focus! - before he says, "Oh. Right. Think we could pretend, and just go home?" Beat. "Sorry. Next question: what would constitute a perfect day for you? That's easy. All family, no interruptions." His brows raise: yes?

"No family. No interrupts," is her mildly spoken, paired with a devious little smile, correction. Iolene then bursts into laughter and reaches forward to pluck the sheets from K'del. She moves on, perhaps assuming that that's his answer as well. "When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?"

K'del, who also begins to laugh, eyes shining with mirth, offers no resistance to the theft of those sheets. He can't argue; or, if he can, he chooses not to. It's probably the former. "Sing? Shells, I don't know. Not in the habit of singing to myself, really, and-- well, to Kasalene, maybe. That's probably more recent?" He rubs at his nose, head shaking. "Though, as we all know, she'd rather hear my stories than my songs."

Iolene trills off some lines to a raunchy sea song that implies heavily what she plans to do to him later, and dons a smug ''there, I win'' expression. The sheets fall from her hands as she reaches out to catch his elbow. "Let's do some laundry."

Caught by the elbow, K'del raises his brows in reply, indicating the table in an obvious gesture of: Here? Now? The point of the exercise is to bring people together, right?!

Iolene has the decency, at least, to squeeze that elbow and then release it in order to run to the doorway and peer out. When she turns, there's an impish smile on her face and she has far too much practice in dropping her riding leathers. Yes. And... yes.

The pages get scattered - and lain upon - over the course of what happens next. K'del's conscientious enough to try and keep them from making ''too'' much noise; but that's about it. "Reckon," he says, sometime later, "I know everything I need to know about you already. Mm?"

Iolene isn't much for quiet, and every time he shushes her, there's a little giggle and then more forgetting. "Mmmmmm. Let's make another one. Another baby. I think Azaylia could handle being acting for a little while. Let's go away and make another one." The pretty pretty please is implied. "Mmm. Let's go home and not let anyone know we're back at least until tomorrow morning." She could go again but not here.

Pretty, pretty please? K'del's answer to that is to lean in for a kiss, twining his fingers around some of her hair before he tucks it behind her ear. "You know I can't deny you anything," he says, by which he clearly means yes. And yes. And yes. "Sure you want to go home, though? Easier to hide if the dragons aren't on the ledge."

"I'll go wherever you want, lover," Iolene reaches up to catch that hand at her hair and ear, twining her fingers in them and drawing them down to her, currently, babyless abdomen. "Let's go. We can apologize to Enwei later."

K'del presses his hand flat to that abdomen; a hopeful gesture. A moment later, however, he glances around, abashed, quite as if he's only just remembered where they are, and what they were supposed to be doing. "Maybe we can round her up some new participants," he suggests, as he reaches for his pants. "As apology." With a note pinned to their chests: Sorry we got distracted have some other people who won't mess up your study, instead.

Iolene works more slowly to button up her blouse, still reclined on that table. "Maybe we should send in Quinlys and H'kon."

K'del stands, though it's as he's got one leg of his pants on, his foot reaching for the other, that Iolene makes that suggestion. He just about falls over, reaching for the table to stable himself. "''Shells''," he says, between peels of laughter. "I'd want to be a fly on that wall."

"Maybe ''I'' should try again with H'kon." Iolene muses aloud, seemingly unaware of the laughter emitting from her weyrmate. "Oh, can you hand me my pants. I think I saw them under your seat somehow."

It takes K'del a few more seconds to compose himself enough to reply, and a few more to come up with the pants. "Right now, the idea of H'kon managing to do it, successfully, with ''anyone'' is a bit beyond me," he admits, reclaiming the pants. It's after he's handed them over that he adds, "But maybe it'd be good for him."

"Do it?" Iolene, ever able to degrade humor to the lowest common denominator waggles her brows suggestively at her mate. "Is that a challenge, sir?" She leaves the top two buttons undone and her hair tousled, but does deign to put on her pants in such a fashion she's wiggling her bare bottom at K'del as she pulls them on. So. Slowly.

K'del reaches forward, aiming to draw Iolene up against him, bare bottom and all; clothing be damned, or at least briefly postponed. "No," he says, drawing up one hand to caress beneath her blouse. "You'd give the man a heart attack, and I need him where he is. And I need ''you'' right where you are." If possibly not in this particular room.

There's a sultry giggle, triumph bright in the sound. She's won some perceived battle. One arm snakes up and backward to curl about K'del's neck and caress the hair there. "We should really go. I don't think even between will quench this." It might be a wonder if she manages to walk out with her pants actually on.

The battle is all hers; K'del admits defeat in the way he presses a kiss to her head, and then, reluctantly, releases her again. "Pants," is his reminder. He just needs to finish with his shirt-- and then his boots. And ''then'', promise, they can really get out of here. "Besides, I don't think I want to accidentally run into Enwei on her way out. Healers are ''scary''." Flee! Flee the nosy healer!

"Right. Pants." Iolene murmurs around her mouth trying to get one more kiss. Released, without a hand to her chest, a sigh exhales. "Maybe I'd change my answer. If I could just be me, and you, and family, I don't think I'd want to be famous ever."

The kiss is granted; K'del's not in the habit of denying them. He's surprised, though, enough that he pauses in the buttoning of his shirt, by that latter comment. "If it could be just that," he says, "I can't imagine ever wanting anything else." There's a smile in his voice; on his face, too. "Love you, Io."

"Of course you do." ''Silly.'' She doesn't bother with her belt, letting it stay loose about her waist and reaches to take K'del's hand. The door creaks open and she peeks out and tries to lead in a quick getaway.

Hand-in-hand, K'del hesitates for a moment, and then launches them into a run. Just in case. The end.

Enwei comes back eventually and sighs at the telltale signs of amuck.

''Dragonriders!''
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=AU Logs, AU Logs
}}

Logs:AU: Thirty-six Minus Thirty-One Equals Five

2015-02-01T06:27:03Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Iolene, K'del |what=In an alternate universe where the bad stuff never happened... K'del might actually be not world weary. |where=Healer Hall |custom= |day=6 |mont..."

{{Log
|who=Iolene, K'del
|what=In an alternate universe where the bad stuff never happened... K'del might actually be not world weary.
|where=Healer Hall
|custom=
|day=6
|month=12
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.27
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon K'del.jpg, Icon iolene.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=<OOC> Iolene says, "http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html?_r=0"

Enwei ushers them into the room, all smiles. How illustrious for her research project: two Weyrleaders, weyrmated at that, willing to participate. "The instructions are in here," she sets, face down, a sheaf of hides. "Follow them all, and tomorrow, you'll come back for individual interviews with me."

It's not that K'del is nervous (well, no; he is) so much that this is ''weird''; he's cautious in the way he glances at Enwei, though he attempts a smile, a smile that broadens, faintly (despite the lines on his forehead) as he glances at Iolene. Sitting is a good start, and so is reaching for the papers. "This is going to be weird, isn't it," he says, a solid attempt at neutrality.

The blonde head tips forward, a smile floating to her lips and her shoulders bunching in the giddy excitement of a younger woman, not that she's all that old herself. "Shush, you. It'll be fun. And how often do we get a night away from the Weyr, work, and Kasalene?" A beat passes. "I still think we should have named her Araia instead." Enwei exits, smug. "What's it say?"

It's an old 'argument;' K'del's smile is suitably indulgent, and so is his fond, "Yes, dearest. You're right, I'm wrong, and... shells." That last is clearly because he's glanced at the page, blue eyes quickly scanning the first of the (so very, very many) questions. "Okay. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?"

"You." Iolene's answer is prompt, her foot nudges underneath the table and travels up his calf and curls bare toes against his knee. Somewhere in between arriving and sitting down, she's discarded her shoes. "But if it's a dinner party with you, me, and someone else? Ysavaeth, as a person. Not as a dragon."

K'del's eyes dance, meeting Io's across the table; his mouth curves into a broader, contented smile. "Ysavaeth as a person... that ''would'' be interesting. It's not wrong that I don't think Cadejoth would be as interesting? Maybe it's just he's not a conversationalist." It doesn't stop his fondness; Cadejoth's perfect, just as he is. "For me... shells, if I've already got you, it'd have to be a historical figure of some kind. A Masterharper for turns and turns ago, maybe. Or someone from High Reaches' past." Too many options.

"Oh, someone not alive?" Iolene purses her lips at this shift in thought and promptly changes her mind, "Lord Beradin." She doesn't give reason and the toes at his knees slide down his shin a little.

Once upon a time, that mention might have caused K'del's expression to falter; now, it does not. He laughs; "Okay, yes, that ''would'' be interesting." He doesn't react - not obviously - to those toes, though Io will know well that he's well aware of them; valiantly ignore! For now. "Next one. Would you like to be famous? In what way? Famous-er, I guess. Can tell you that one immediately: no. No thanks."

"Yes." It's an answer that's at odds with K'del's and for that reason alone Iolene's surprise melts into a scrunched face of apology. "I just feel... the more well known I become, the less stigma there would be to those who are unlawfully exiled. And that... people might look less oddly upon an exile as Lord. I think any exile that wants to should become prominent in any field they choose." A beat. "Or something." The toes climb up again, and the other foot too. They both rest, toe-tip against knee, though one twirls funny against his inner thigh.

K'del seems more curious than surprised by Iolene's answer, his head slowly beginning to nod as she continues - and look, there's only the faintest twitch at mention of the exile Lord, or, for that matter, exiles in general. Meanwhile, the fingers of one hand dart beneath the table, reaching to idly glide their nails across one of those feet. "That's... mm. Can see your reasoning there. We ought to spend more time out and about." And less time at home. Or here in this room, possibly. "Just not... think we ought to push to get your clutchmates transferred around the place?"

"No!" Horrified, Iolene's right foot pushes at K'del's knee. "No. They should stay at High Reaches. E'gin is on a promising track towards wingleadership and-... What's next." Repulsed by the very notion that her comrades would be sent away, she changes the subject.

K'del's knee pushes back, and then relents. His expression is mute apology, and, hastily, he glances back at the questions in front of them. "Do you ever," he reads, "rehearse what you're goint to say before you say it to someone?"

Iolene's mouth gaps open. Her secret shame. Then there's a shamed laughter and a flushing of cheeks. "What about you?"

"Never." But K'del can't keep his face straight; besides, it's easier to acknowledge it when she already has. "Less than I used to, though. Maybe because I practice on you, sometimes, and because..." Because. Just because. Regardless? "Your secret's safe with me, promise. I'll never tell." He ''will'' tickle the bottom of her foot, though. Also, "Used to practice arguments with Tiriana, only I always won them in my head, and then she'd react in a completely ''different'' off-the-handle kind of way." Useless.

"Well, that's cheating," says Iolene, her head shaking while moving forward with pursed lips. She airkisses the Weyrleader and then slips far back into the backing of her seat and slouches to one side. This action is followed by her foot swiftly retreating. Not the tickles! "K'del?"

K'del sticks out his tongue in response, removing his fingers to the table: safe distance. "Mmm?"

The foot returns, quicker in its travel up his leg and slips between them to nestle ''right there''. "I love you." The smile Iolene spares for K'del is one that's solely reserved for him, spent on pillows; a soft, meltingly serene and content smile.

On the table, K'del's fingers twitch, as if they'd ''so'' like to dive back towards that foot, or perhaps even somewhere more interesting. Instead, that smile gets returned, wholehearted and unapologetically. "I love you too," he tells her. "Forever. For ''always''." He may, now in the process of staring into her eyes, have forgotten about the questions.

She'll remind him. The turns as Weyrwoman have made small shifts, including that of task-oriented. (Otherwise people nag her and take away from her family time.) "What's next, darling," is what her voice says. Leg stretching and toe wiggling deeper between his legs is what her body says. "We're never going to make it out of here."

K'del's body? It says yes. Reluctantly, however, he turns his attention back on the questions, clearly his throat carefully - focus! - before he says, "Oh. Right. Think we could pretend, and just go home?" Beat. "Sorry. Next question: what would constitute a perfect day for you? That's easy. All family, no interruptions." His brows raise: yes?

"No family. No interrupts," is her mildly spoken, paired with a devious little smile, correction. Iolene then bursts into laughter and reaches forward to pluck the sheets from K'del. She moves on, perhaps assuming that that's his answer as well. "When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?"

K'del, who also begins to laugh, eyes shining with mirth, offers no resistance to the theft of those sheets. He can't argue; or, if he can, he chooses not to. It's probably the former. "Sing? Shells, I don't know. Not in the habit of singing to myself, really, and-- well, to Kasalene, maybe. That's probably more recent?" He rubs at his nose, head shaking. "Though, as we all know, she'd rather hear my stories than my songs."

Iolene trills off some lines to a raunchy sea song that implies heavily what she plans to do to him later, and dons a smug ''there, I win'' expression. The sheets fall from her hands as she reaches out to catch his elbow. "Let's do some laundry."

Caught by the elbow, K'del raises his brows in reply, indicating the table in an obvious gesture of: Here? Now? The point of the exercise is to bring people together, right?!

Iolene has the decency, at least, to squeeze that elbow and then release it in order to run to the doorway and peer out. When she turns, there's an impish smile on her face and she has far too much practice in dropping her riding leathers. Yes. And... yes.

The pages get scattered - and lain upon - over the course of what happens next. K'del's conscientious enough to try and keep them from making ''too'' much noise; but that's about it. "Reckon," he says, sometime later, "I know everything I need to know about you already. Mm?"

Iolene isn't much for quiet, and every time he shushes her, there's a little giggle and then more forgetting. "Mmmmmm. Let's make another one. Another baby. I think Azaylia could handle being acting for a little while. Let's go away and make another one." The pretty pretty please is implied. "Mmm. Let's go home and not let anyone know we're back at least until tomorrow morning." She could go again but not here.

Pretty, pretty please? K'del's answer to that is to lean in for a kiss, twining his fingers around some of her hair before he tucks it behind her ear. "You know I can't deny you anything," he says, by which he clearly means yes. And yes. And yes. "Sure you want to go home, though? Easier to hide if the dragons aren't on the ledge."

"I'll go wherever you want, lover," Iolene reaches up to catch that hand at her hair and ear, twining her fingers in them and drawing them down to her, currently, babyless abdomen. "Let's go. We can apologize to Enwei later."

K'del presses his hand flat to that abdomen; a hopeful gesture. A moment later, however, he glances around, abashed, quite as if he's only just remembered where they are, and what they were supposed to be doing. "Maybe we can round her up some new participants," he suggests, as he reaches for his pants. "As apology." With a note pinned to their chests: Sorry we got distracted have some other people who won't mess up your study, instead.

Iolene works more slowly to button up her blouse, still reclined on that table. "Maybe we should send in Quinlys and H'kon."

K'del stands, though it's as he's got one leg of his pants on, his foot reaching for the other, that Iolene makes that suggestion. He just about falls over, reaching for the table to stable himself. "''Shells''," he says, between peels of laughter. "I'd want to be a fly on that wall."

"Maybe ''I'' should try again with H'kon." Iolene muses aloud, seemingly unaware of the laughter emitting from her weyrmate. "Oh, can you hand me my pants. I think I saw them under your seat somehow."

It takes K'del a few more seconds to compose himself enough to reply, and a few more to come up with the pants. "Right now, the idea of H'kon managing to do it, successfully, with ''anyone'' is a bit beyond me," he admits, reclaiming the pants. It's after he's handed them over that he adds, "But maybe it'd be good for him."

"Do it?" Iolene, ever able to degrade humor to the lowest common denominator waggles her brows suggestively at her mate. "Is that a challenge, sir?" She leaves the top two buttons undone and her hair tousled, but does deign to put on her pants in such a fashion she's wiggling her bare bottom at K'del as she pulls them on. So. Slowly.

K'del reaches forward, aiming to draw Iolene up against him, bare bottom and all; clothing be damned, or at least briefly postponed. "No," he says, drawing up one hand to caress beneath her blouse. "You'd give the man a heart attack, and I need him where he is. And I need ''you'' right where you are." If possibly not in this particular room.

There's a sultry giggle, triumph bright in the sound. She's won some perceived battle. One arm snakes up and backward to curl about K'del's neck and caress the hair there. "We should really go. I don't think even between will quench this." It might be a wonder if she manages to walk out with her pants actually on.

The battle is all hers; K'del admits defeat in the way he presses a kiss to her head, and then, reluctantly, releases her again. "Pants," is his reminder. He just needs to finish with his shirt-- and then his boots. And ''then'', promise, they can really get out of here. "Besides, I don't think I want to accidentally run into Enwei on her way out. Healers are ''scary''." Flee! Flee the nosy healer!

"Right. Pants." Iolene murmurs around her mouth trying to get one more kiss. Released, without a hand to her chest, a sigh exhales. "Maybe I'd change my answer. If I could just be me, and you, and family, I don't think I'd want to be famous ever."

The kiss is granted; K'del's not in the habit of denying them. He's surprised, though, enough that he pauses in the buttoning of his shirt, by that latter comment. "If it could be just that," he says, "I can't imagine ever wanting anything else." There's a smile in his voice; on his face, too. "Love you, Io."

"Of course you do." ''Silly.'' She doesn't bother with her belt, letting it stay loose about her waist and reaches to take K'del's hand. The door creaks open and she peeks out and tries to lead in a quick getaway.

Hand-in-hand, K'del hesitates for a moment, and then launches them into a run. Just in case. The end.

Enwei comes back eventually and sighs at the telltale signs of amuck.

''Dragonriders!''
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=AU Logs
}}

Logs talk:Daughter of Igen

2015-01-31T03:27:31Z

Satiet: Comment provided by Suireh - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Daughter of Igen]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==K'del (18:38, 30 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

I haven't commented, thus far, but -

I am really, really enjoying Farideh's reaction to all of this Igen stuff. it feels incredibly ''real'' and realistic and... I feel bad for her. But it also feels like it's a turning point for her, as a person; that pivotal moment that changes things? I dunno. Regardless: so much fun! Yay!
==Suireh (22:27, 30 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

I am absolutely loving Farideh's journey through all of this. I love how these events shape her and how they are shaping her and how she says High Reaches binds her.

I love how, even though she seems to really like/adore Joremy, she wishes he hadn't done it.

Logs:Chelth's Ichor And Other Dragonly Matters

2015-01-24T22:06:56Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Leova, M'thiu |what=Leova visits a fellow dragonhealer at Benden and they catch up. |where=Benden Hold |custom= |day=05 |month=06 |turn=36 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gam..."

{{Log
|who=Leova, M'thiu
|what=Leova visits a fellow dragonhealer at Benden and they catch up.
|where=Benden Hold
|custom=
|day=05
|month=06
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.19
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=ST'd by Rose.
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=>---< RP Room: Dragonhealing Infirmary, Benden Weyr, Benden Weyr(#528RIJ) >--<

It's large, cavernous and tends to the various ailments of dragonkind. The
cavern, however, has been segmented with a make shift wall made of wood
planks separating the back area from the front, thus claiming one third of
the prior space.

Commands: +list, +select <#>, +desc <room name>/<area>=<desc>
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Leova F 43 5'5" hourglass, rusty hair, amber eyes 8s
M'thiu M 41 6'2 muscular, dark hair, blue eyes 0s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Out
>----------------------------------------< 13D 11M 36T I10, autumn night >---<

|log=The beginning of the sixth month in turn 36 finds Benden in better spirits, as if the entire Weyr's mood is dictated by the emotions of its leaders. In some ways, it's indicative of a Weyr that's copacetic with each other, in tune and rank and file and all that jazz.

M'thiu's broad frame barely fits behind the desk job he's acquired today, to the far left and back where the front half meets that wooden wall. His long legs poke out through the front end of the table, one foot balanced ontop of the other. He pretends to be working, that pencil of his tracing some words or other, writing ''something'', but the way his feet sway back and forth like a little girl about to get her first pony ride oozes absolute boredom.

Vrianth slides into Benden on the balmy breeze, a prickle of electric interest to the watchdragon and a select few. She's already aloft by the time her rider strides into Benden's dragon infirmary, a clinking sack in one hand: what's going to be costly in the months to come, but what now is just a couple beers. Of ''course'' it would have to be M'thiu. He's liable to get his foot bumped by Leova's boot once she's there, at least unless he starts looking to pay attention.

He doesn't pay attention and his foot gets bumped. Once. Twice. Thrice finally rouses him from his boredom dulled state. Even so, he blinks blankly at the greenrider standing there, squints his eyes shut, shakes his head like a puppy just out of a bath, rakes his hand through his hair, and looks again. A sudden smile flashes, reaching high to crinkle his eyes. It's a smile that hasn't gotten much use in the last few months and it shows in how it seems to reintroduce laugh lines to M'thiu's face. "You. It would be you, wouldn't it, to come stomp up to my doorstep and rip me away from my studies."

That third bump, that's closer to a kick. Leova eyes him, fighting down a one-cornered smile, ''somehow'' managing not to wave her hand in front of the other dragonhealer's face. "Forcibly, aye. Drag you out into the downpour," of sunshine. "Whole sevenday this slow?"

"Could be worse," says M'thiu. "Could be worse." The flash of brightness fades as the events of the last few months resettle like an ill-worn mantle about his shoulder. "It's getting better though and I'll be glad for a few more days of dull boredom like today. Better than, well," he's shrugging and reaches back suddenly for a silent stretch before standing. His head rolls from side to side and backwards. "Want a drink? I could use a bite. Been sitting here all day, hey. Hey you!" The boy doesn't need a name, he's an infirmary aide. "Mind the desk while I find some grub."

"Could be," Leova can't disagree, even that half-smile slipping. "Brought drinks," she can say at least. "Friend's family's. Though, wouldn't turn down a bite myself." She's got a glance to the boy, no more. A long look around the cavern later, she's set to head off with M'thiu. There's no hurry to broach what else has been going on, better if he does. ''If'' he, eventually, does. No sense in wasting the sunshine that's come.

"Drinks?" M'thiu's interested. He's a puppy in all but well, actual species, with that perked head that kens to Leova at the mention of something new and alcoholic, or so he presumes. "Supposed to be some fresh fish in today from down by Nerat way. Kyouri apparently had to trade some favors in to get a shipment here rather than direct to Ista, but it's well worth it if you're the type that likes fish, y'know? Nice stew today, all garlicky, fennel, saffron, it's good stuff. Smelled it earlier," Tasted it too most likely, "How're you holding up over on the great beyond?"

"Beer." It's succinct, amused: nothing outrageous here. "Fish, I can do fish. Saffron, aye? That's some trading." Leova takes the corridors out of habit, the corner that people going the other way often cut, the sharp right turn. "We're, mm. Not bad. My littlest's over his sick up," that's a good reminder. "Even that brown of ours is managing, and it's not like it's Fall."

"And Vrianth?" There's a wrinkled set to his face as he darts a none too casual look at the greenrider. And they're walking and walking. And there's the living caverns. "Downright luminescent yet?"

"Like I'd come here then," Leova says, but amiably. She glances sideways at him. "Joabenth, he holding up?" What with persuading Vrianth to toy with him, ''again'', echoes of Turns ago. If it's a careful question, she's also busy. There's her sack to drop off, once she's found not only clear seats but neighbors she doesn't have to ask to watch over it. There's the line to get into. The soup to dish out.

"You might have missed me," responds the bronzerider with a gleam in his smile. Once in the caverns, he's following after her, a second too late to claim that table (she's already there), and trailing towards the serving tables. "Oh, ''him''. He manages. He already has calculated designs on our new gold," there's a silent beat, the slightest hitch that marrs the fluidity of his speech. "Pretty name, Sunfialth. Glad I'm not a taking my turn at being a weyrlingmaster this time."

"Already?" Leova vents a sigh at that. If she also flicks her gaze his way... after, she's uncharacteristically choosy with the rolls. With seeds. Without. With swirls of color. Without. Without ''and'' without seeds. Today, there's no quick fix. "Noticed they didn't spell her name with an 'o,' guess it fits the whole gold thing," is the sort of thing she says in line. "What's up with her?" that's for back at the table. It might just mean her and Joabenth. Might.

"Margaut?" Does he deliberately misunderstand. "Good enough kid, I guess. I doubt she'd want to find herself in bed with a forty year old man her dragon's first go up, but," M'thiu rolls his shoulders back as he waits for Leova to finally just ''pick one already''. He has a large bowl of stew in his hands and tossed in three of those long crunchy cracker-like bread sticks in to soak. "Holdbred. So many of them seem to be. Cora and Kyouri might put a blanket ban on any one with riders over the age of X from chasing. They can try at any rate. I'm not sure if that'd be a good thing for the Benden bloodlines though."

If he'd wanted to provoke a look, he got one. Also, belatedly, a chuckle. "Imagine that. Be as glad to not have ''our'' next that way, Holdbred," Leova does admit. Even when she's better settled in her seat, unlike those bread sticks, the plain, ordinary roll she'd wound up with stays untouched. She trails the spoon in her soup, cooling. "'X.' Being kind to the new girl, you think? Surprised they don't just hand-pick a couple star-eyed boys and send them off together, at that rate."

"X. They haven't decided the age cut off yet. But that's well and great for Benden riders. I'd hate to see what would happen if Benden decided to close its borders, so to speak, for all flights." There might be some humored mourning in M'thiu's intonation, that's quickly followed by a sigh and silence. There's food to eat, and he's not so gentle on his mouth as he inhales a few bites of the hot stew.

Leova lets her stew sit, and in the vacancy, glances over at their neighbors. Still there. She settles for, "For certain. Leadership flight... ''get'' that." It's quiet. Quieter, "But even with the rotating. Whatever this thing is, it's already here."

M'thiu, for once, doesn't have a quippy response. He stirs his stew, rolls his tongue around in his mouth and winces. Instead of tackling this subject, as quiet as it's gotten, he remarks, "I doubt I'll be tasting much of anything the rest of the day. Maybe not until tomorrow. Shades." That doesn't stop him from eating a few more, slightly more cooled, bites. << He believes Chelth's should retire. >> Joabenth shares this, hesitating in a swirl of color. << There is an anomaly in Chelth's ichor. >>

Amber eyes don't narrow, but there's a tinge of disappointment to the way Leova blows on ''her'' stew, now. Until... << ''Is'' there. >> Vrianth, even before those same eyes lift. "It's what you get," has some distraction among the familiar reproof. "For being in a hurry." << What do you mean, Joabenth-rider? >>

There's a thin line where M'thiu's lips should be, pressed, compressed, drawn in, and then just as suddenly released, brightened in hue for their effort. "You're not a weyrlingmaster anymore, are you? I can't remember the last time we caught up. You're still with that old man of yours?" << It does not seal. Clot. >> The terminology comes a half beat after the bronze tries to explain on his own. << M'thiu and his kind, >> dragonhealers, << Cannot help but wonder if that is the cause of Benden's misfortunes. >> There's a flickering memory, not Joabenth's own, that shows the six eggs on the sands, the three that never were displayed in muted colors. "I couldn't convince you to move out here then, can I?"

Amber eyes ''darken''. "Why, did you dump T'biel again? No, I haven't been for a while." Vrianth is, unusually, silent: just the rising stir of static. "A weyrlingmaster, I mean. Haven't been that." << It cannot help, >> Vrianth says at last. << It is not known. >> Not gossiped about yet, then. "No, no moving," Leova finishes at last.

"If I had, this," M'thiu gestures back and forth between the pair of them with his spoon, "Would totally make him jealous." His wink is completely unrepentant, and helps to mask the tense pull to his mouth set. "Actually, you find me an honest man, for once in my life. But such details, perhaps another time. You'd like her. I'll bring her around next time Vrianth decides to grace the skies." He is likely all too serious. << B'doran is a good man. >> This is absolutely M'thiu double-speaking through his dragon, the tonal qualities and speech patterns differ. << But his time has passed. >> "You missed our last gathering. Telgar." Too casual.

Leova does manage a laugh, all that would-be jealousy, if not without constraint. Her brows even lift on cue for his ''honesty''. "I'll introduce her to my weyrmate," might be serious in a different way. So is the way she looks into the bronzerider's eyes. << She protects him. >> "What ''did'' I miss? Marivne started to say." Distractions happen.

"They try to keep it quiet." Oh they try. But dragonhealers are a sect above or something. "Yuraveth is ill. Well, that's what was implied. No one out and out wanted to confirm it." M'thiu's toe underneath the table might be a little too forward, but there's that gleam again, unrepentant, teasing, and the foot retreats quite quickly.

Speaking of distractions: that toe's well-timed, jolting Leova out of what's becoming an outright stare. Facades are one thing, but this is personal, for all that they aren't ''her'' queens. "They wouldn't. Shells, M'thiu. Ista, what about there? The others?"

"Ista's'fine s'far as I know." The breadsticks are being gnawed on. "If you want to find out Telgar's secrets, you'll have to move there. Or here. I mean, for our secrets." M'thiu's jokes fall short this time, in timbre at least. "Are you going to open up one of those bottles or is it for me to enjoy later?"

The greenrider exhales through her nose, not quite a Vrianth-huff. Her nod is sober, her second surprised and near to contrite. "Well, we don't have any new ones." If Leova hasn't great recompense in kind, nor great grounds for hope, at least she can reach down and give M'thiu that ale.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:The Long Way Home

2015-01-24T22:00:36Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Suireh, Vesik, Joremy
|what=The other side of what happened on Suireh's off the grid journeying.
|where=Igen Hold
|custom=
|day=10
|month=11
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.24
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=Bit is Suireh's old old old firelizard.
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=
|log=She presented herself to the Igen Hold senior harper. The letter she presented superceded the fact he outranked her as a journeyman by a few turns and in age by many more than a few, but she, kindly, did not push the issue. He was the senior harper here and she, a visitor, envoy of the Masterharper or not.

There had been many ways she and Vesik had discussed to get her to the area unnoticed but this one seemed to be the best, though she'd remained dubious of her ability to ''live on the road'' as it were.

It hadn't been the easiest journey, but, after a few days, she had found herself slipping into the role, giving way to the luxury that came with the absolute freedom of not being herself. It hadn't been easy not to smack some sense into Eskia's husband and then stumbling across Jaspen's caravan was fortuitous, though not entirely coincidental. Bit had seen to that.

The months had been long and she'd kept her ear out for news and it'd been a relief to come so close to Fort Hold. Vesik would never have to know he wasn't her first stop when she had the chance. Leova would never be allowed to know that her showing up at High Reaches was a calculated measure to let those she loved know she was fine and to stop looking. There were priorities and they had shifted, at a slow but steady pace, during her travels with the merry entertainers. At times, she believed herself to be exactly like them and it had been nice. More than nice. It had felt more like a home and family than she'd ever thought to have before.

She had slipped into the Hold with dirtied hair, manure-smeared into her cheeks, and in tatters she had purloined from the rag sewing bag Mariny kept around. Dirty, smelly people don't garner much attention and even if they do, people's eyes shift quickly. It's easier not to see what was fundamentally broken in the system when it offended the delicate senses of those who contributed to society.

The conversation she and Vesik had shared, ''after'' a luxurious bath in his private quarters, was interesting, and she was instructed on the finer points of what was happening, why it was happening, and what could be done with regards to Igen. It was, for once in her life, an open-ended discussion where the input she was offering was heard. He then inquired of her grandfather, and garnered himself a ''look'' for his concern.

"It's not your concern and it doesn't change that I'm a harper," was her response. She could even hear the cool poise in her voice and could see the amused interest lighting Vesik's features.

She would play the song for him sometime later. But not now. Not until after this was all done. Besides, a very small part of her couldn't help but suspect he had already heard or knew. Masterharpers were tricky that way. With their secret stairways that lead to tunnels that lead out into the yonder.

And then Jaspen happened. It'd be hard to not think back on this whole endeavor without trying to understand ''how'' that happened. Why ''that'' happened, and it had taken her a few days after she'd left to recognize it had fulfilled some need in her. And that sleeping with one person wouldn't turn her into her father's daughter. Riahla could claim that market if she wanted, but not her.

It ultimately ended at Igen Hold, sheer dumb luck she was already in the area when something happened. The stupid infatuation that made her linger when she should have left weeks earlier and been there before the Gather, before the mess Joremy had created for himself. She was sure Vesik would reprimand her with those eyes of his. Some day, her eyes would have the same power. And her ears would have a similar power to his -- little birdies flitting information in and out of them at an overwhelming rate.

She was just one of those little birdies.

But she was a little birdie who would make this happen, supplant a seated Lord who was failing his duties to his Hold in more ways than one with the lesser of two evils.

Lord Joremy had a nauseating ring to it, but when it was proclaimed after the Conclave met, Suireh's shoulders finally sank with relief.

----

It was on her official return to the Hall, with her reports made neatly, and after she'd started teaching once more that she found herself in the main auditorium, where many performances took place. Alone on the stage, she began to finger the gitar she held, adjusting its tuning before starting the song she'd long since committed to memory. With it came the memories, of not her grandfather, but her strange, long, enlightening roadtrip. She heard, rather than saw, the door shut heavily and knew to not even bother looking up.

There was a new, more intricate knot waiting for her on her return to her room, without ceremony, walking the tables, or notice. It lived in the back of her lingerie drawer as she lived the life of a journeyman and kept her ear to the ground.

If he asked, she'd do anything for him.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=Vignette Logs
}}

Logs:The Long Way Home

2015-01-24T21:59:47Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Suireh, Vesik, Joremy |what=The other side of what happened on Suireh's off the grid journeying. |where=Igen Hold |custom= |day=10 |month=11 |turn=36 |IP=Interval |..."

{{Log
|who=Suireh, Vesik, Joremy
|what=The other side of what happened on Suireh's off the grid journeying.
|where=Igen Hold
|custom=
|day=10
|month=11
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.24
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=
|log=She presented herself to the Igen Hold senior harper. The letter she presented superceded the fact he outranked her as a journeyman by a few turns and in age by many more than a few, but she, kindly, did not push the issue. He was the senior harper here and she, a visitor, envoy of the Masterharper or not.

There had been many ways she and Vesik had discussed to get her to the area unnoticed but this one seemed to be the best, though she'd remained dubious of her ability to ''live on the road'' as it were.

It hadn't been the easiest journey, but, after a few days, she had found herself slipping into the role, giving way to the luxury that came with the absolute freedom of not being herself. It hadn't been easy not to smack some sense into Eskia's husband and then stumbling across Jaspen's caravan was fortuitous, though not entirely coincidental. Bit had seen to that.

The months had been long and she'd kept her ear out for news and it'd been a relief to come so close to Fort Hold. Vesik would never have to know he wasn't her first stop when she had the chance. Leova would never be allowed to know that her showing up at High Reaches was a calculated measure to let those she loved know she was fine and to stop looking. There were priorities and they had shifted, at a slow but steady pace, during her travels with the merry entertainers. At times, she believed herself to be exactly like them and it had been nice. More than nice. It had felt more like a home and family than she'd ever thought to have before.

She had slipped into the Hold with dirtied hair, manure-smeared into her cheeks, and in tatters she had purloined from the rag sewing bag Mariny kept around. Dirty, smelly people don't garner much attention and even if they do, people's eyes shift quickly. It's easier not to see what was fundamentally broken in the system when it offended the delicate senses of those who contributed to society.

The conversation she and Vesik had shared, ''after'' a luxurious bath in his private quarters, was interesting, and she was instructed on the finer points of what was happening, why it was happening, and what could be done with regards to Igen. It was, for once in her life, an open-ended discussion where the input she was offering was heard. He then inquired of her grandfather, and garnered himself a ''look'' for his concern.

"It's not your concern and it doesn't change that I'm a harper," was her response. She could even hear the cool poise in her voice and could see the amused interest lighting Vesik's features.

She would play the song for him sometime later. But not now. Not until after this was all done. Besides, a very small part of her couldn't help but suspect he had already heard or knew. Masterharpers were tricky that way. With their secret stairways that lead to tunnels that lead out into the yonder.

And then Jaspen happened. It'd be hard to not think back on this whole endeavor without trying to understand ''how'' that happened. Why ''that'' happened, and it had taken her a few days after she'd left to recognize it had fulfilled some need in her. And that sleeping with one person wouldn't turn her into her father's daughter. Riahla could claim that market if she wanted, but not her.

It ultimately ended at Igen Hold, sheer dumb luck she was already in the area when something happened. The stupid infatuation that made her linger when she should have left weeks earlier and been there before the Gather, before the mess Joremy had created for himself. She was sure Vesik would reprimand her with those eyes of his. Some day, her eyes would have the same power. And her ears would have a similar power to his -- little birdies flitting information in and out of them at an overwhelming rate.

She was just one of those little birdies.

But she was a little birdie who would make this happen, supplant a seated Lord who was failing his duties to his Hold in more ways than one with the lesser of two evils.

Lord Joremy had a nauseating ring to it, but when it was proclaimed after the Conclave met, Suireh's shoulders finally sank with relief.

----

It was on her official return to the Hall, with her reports made neatly, and after she'd started teaching once more that she found herself in the main auditorium, where many performances took place. Alone on the stage, she began to finger the gitar she held, adjusting its tuning before starting the song she'd long since committed to memory. With it came the memories, of not her grandfather, but her strange, long, enlightening roadtrip. She heard, rather than saw, the door shut heavily and knew to not even bother looking up.

There was a new, more intricate knot waiting for her on her return to her room, without ceremony, walking the tables, or notice. It lived in the back of her lingerie drawer as she lived the life of a journeyman and kept her ear to the ground.

If he asked, she'd do anything for him.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=Vignette Logs
}}

Logs talk:Methods of Succession

2015-01-02T16:43:43Z

Satiet: Comment provided by Satiet - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Methods of Succession]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Satiet (11:43, 2 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

There is so much political goodness I love about this scene.

Logs:Off the Grid

2014-12-26T17:00:55Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Suireh, K'del{{!}}Eskai, K'del{{!}}Jaspen
|what=After her grandfather's death, Suireh goes off the grid, only to reemerge somewhere near Igen Hold.
|where=Western to Central Pern
|when=T36 M2 - M8
|gamedate=2014.12.26
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=Thanks to [[K'del/ST]] for running this indulgent scene for me.
|icons-new=Icon suireh.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=The first few days, wandering inland from Sea's Peak and away from Tillek, aren't so bad; there's some rain, but it's mostly just a cold drizzle, and one that comes and goes rather than sticking around. It's not so bad, really. Most people are glad for a song, of an evening. It's not hard to find somewhere to stay, even if it's just on a rug in front of the hearth. A hayloft, maybe, in places so small someone's already claimed the rug. No one asks questions, really. They clamour for a song, for news, for anything that might break the winter monotony, but none of it's personal. Suireh's a harper; no one pays attention to the person behind the strings.

At each place along the way, Suireh plays as asked, happy songs, sad songs, ballads, dancing songs. Her repertoire has breadth and she's not unpleasant to listen to, but there's a distinct lack of something in her singing. Not enough for anyone untrained to notice, but here and there, in those small holds not graced by the presence of a regular harper, there's an ear that can pick it out: that even when singing something jovial, there's a marked sadness beneath it all. "Thank you," says the journeying harper, managing at least a little genuine grace in her voice as she accepts her payment of a stale loaf of bread, some cheese and a hand-me-down pair of shoes. It's payment for an evening of singing and telling of tales, and teaching for a few days for the little ones. Trading out her worn shoes for the new ones, she begins to walk again into the drizzle.

How much meaning does time have, on the road? Dates don't mean much, to some of these people; the season matters, the weather. Not the date. By the calendar, it's half-way through the second month when the weather changes. It's a cold night, even in front of the hearth (and one shared with a somewhat less-than-clean dog, to boot), and no wonder, really: come morning, there's a blanket of snow in the yard, a layer of frost upon the dormant vines, laid out row-upon-row. You'd be welcome to stay a few days," ventures the cotholder's wife, a thin, reedy woman who wheezes, never seen without one child another attached to hip, or breast, or leg. "Grandpa's always felt the weather in his knee; he thinks it'll stay a while. Look - it's still falling. Pretty, isn't it?"

"I-," but where, really, does she have to go and what opinions could she have that could deny the fact of snow on the ground. Suireh's mouth shuts as quickly as it open and those pale eyes of her focus on the following flakes. Dropping her chin, the young harper musters a rueful chuckle and shake of her head. When she next looks up, it's with a smile, a gracious one that doesn't climb to her eyes. "It's beautiful, and I will stay, if you don't mind me taking advantage of your hospitality as such." A cold-calloused hand, fingers brittle from more than a seven spent traveling, catch on the fabric of her pants as she smooths them down. "I...," she looks awkwardly at the child at the woman's hip. "Shall I help with dinner?"

It's the expected answer, just like it was the expected offer; the woman - Eskia - smiles that weary, drawn smile, gesturing towards the stove. "I won't say no. But nothing that will ruin your hands worse than they have been. They're your livelihood, aren't they?" The boy on her hip begins to cry, burying his head into his mother's chest as she sighs, adjusting his position. "I bet you've seen lots of places," she says, over potato chopping and stew-stirring. "Seen lots of interesting things?"

Suri, as she's introduced herself as, flexes her fingers at her side. "Cooking," she decides to say, in lieu of the things she's seen, "Is the least I can do. I can probably manage that," she nods to the potato chopping, "Without cutting myself. I promise. I even know how to fry fish, though you'd have to ask my sister to gut them." There's a better smile for that, one of recollection. "Here," she gently nudges Eskia to the side, and claims the knife for herself. "What would you like to know?"

It's a rare pleasure for Eskia to hand over duties of any kind to anyone else, and she does so with a grateful smile, visibly latching on to this reference to a sister, to fish, to ''anything'' remote from this life that she leads. "Oh, I don't know," she says, rocking the child at her hip. "Anything, really. I've not been further than half a day's walk from here. I've not even seen the sea, or tasted fish. Is it much like chicken?" She leans in, pressing a kiss to her toddler's rumpled hair. "I want better for him. For all of them. But then, isn't that what all parents want, Suri?"

"I... wouldn't know." The statement is drawn out, more thoughtful than startled, though there's a small pinch of the latter in her expression. "I don't really have parents, and no children yet." Suireh begins methodically chopping the potatoes into precise, neat cubes, visibly spacing out her cuts with little nods. "And fish tastes nothing like chicken. It's hard to explain without sounding disgusting and maybe, one day, you'll get the chance to try it and I wouldn't want to have colored your opinion. Once I'm done, do these go in there?" The stew is nodded at.

Eskia is startled, first, and then sympathetic: imagine not really having parents! "One day," she says, firmly, and with a certain amount of false bravado; obviously, this ''must'' be one of Suri's great ambitions! "Yes, put them in. It'll be more potato than meat, but..." A shrug. What can you do? Tomorrow's will be even ''more'' potato, and almost no meat at all, but finally, on the day after that, the sun will shine, the snow will clear, and the road will be open again. It's probably for the best; Eskia's wistful questions grow more pointed by the day. "Go south," Eskia's husband advises, seeing her out (or is it... guiding her out, kicking her out?). "Snow's not melted, yet, north, as I hear it, and there's nothing for you, eastwards. Nothing for ''anyone''."

Song's not much for payment, and even doing work isn't enough when food's dwindling in the winter: this Suireh (and her belly) understand all too well by now. "Aye," agrees the harper, having absorbed some of the accent of this region during her short-lived stay. "South. And... thank you." But before she's completely gone, as she gathers up her meager belongings and slung the gitar over her shoulders, a hand reaches out to give Eskia a spontaneous hug. Later, the woman might find a few quarter mark pieces in her pocket and a small length of a pretty ribbon.

Can Suireh/Suri know what that means to the holder woman? Perhaps she can guess.

Southwards, the road broadens and clears. It's two days later when, as afternoon fades towards evening, darkness encroaching, Suireh's steps bring her to a small cluster of wagons, circled around each other on the side of the road. There's a fire - smoke, rising - and music around it; laughter, too, as someone beats at a drum, and someone else hums along. They've a rich stew, going, the smell of which wafts over the road, and the man on guard, sitting on the back of one of those wagons? His gaze tracks her as she walks.

Still, with food supplies dwindling and a cold aching in her bones, the harper's approach to the caravan doesn't deviate and once she's within earshot (and noseshot of the stew) of the guard, she lifts an arm, with her gitar in it and hails the man. "A song, a story, or news for a place by your fire?" It's become her standard greeting. She doesn't look much: tired, circles about her eyes, and the clothing she's attired in stained, though serviceable for the weather.

The man's long since noticed the gitar at her back, and his expression turns considering at Suireh's offer. "Aye," he says, gesturing towards the inner circle, the fire. "Tell 'em I sent you in. We've had no strings in a turn or more, and no news in days. Come, traveller. Make yourself at home. We've no pretensions, here, but what we've got..."

She'll get a few glances, as she approaches the fire, but they're no more than that; their stew has more meat than most people's, this time of turn, and their eagerness for her music is no less profound. "Your choice," suggests the man with the drum, later, once they've eaten. "Play what you feel. We'll accompany you."

She's shared her news; of High Reaches having lost a queen, of how spring seems to be coming slow this turn, of a little hold that lost one of its patriarchs. It's in that last, that keen eyes might note the story as her own, her own loss and extrapolate as they will. Pale eyes, gleaming above the fire that has only just started to warm her to her bones, considers her crowd, the location, and the stillness of this winter-to-spring night. She idly tunes her instrument, playing chords this way and that until she finds the one she wants and begins to sing, accompanied by herself softly at first, ''that song'' in its harmonic minor key, with its unpolished, haunting words. Though it's a song for seafolk, evoking the images of the ocean, the winds, the seaspray, and that utter stillness of a night out in the middle of nowhere, the latter might tug at the hearts of wanderers anywhere.

Travelling folk, traders; they're entranced by the music, silent in a way they weren't for the sharing of news. The young man with the drum may have promised accompaniment, but his hands falter, instead, smoothing the tanned hide of his instruments with calloused fingers and, instead, simply ''listening''. "You've a fine voice," he tells her, afterwards, in that low, rolling voice of his. "A performer's voice. A performer's gift. Whatever you're run-- no. I take that back. Instead: will you travel with us, for a time? We've a spring gather to head for, but it's only a small one. We've food... company... We'll ask no questions, I promise."

Two days between seeing people, and sevendays worth of living in this fashion, have curbed some of Suireh's pride. Or a lot of it. She doesn't even flinch at his slip of tongue, and instead offers a quiet gratitude in her gaze. "Suri," is her introduction, followed by a low quip paired with a lopsided smirk, "Is my running so obvious?" A cough, the kind that echos deep in her chest, ruins the would be flirtation and causes her to turn her head with a hand to chest to still it. A slow exhale releases the pain into the air, before she's turning to catch the drummer's eyes, with a slow, teasing smile, "Tomorrow night, try to keep up."

"To a man who's been running most of his adult life?" He can't be more than a handful of turns older than she is, but there's a wryness to his voice; he knows, because he's been there, or perhaps still is, even if he seems - seems! - to have found peace, here. "Jaspen. You've a nasty cough, there, Suri. Look after it. Let Mariny dose you up before you sleep, mm? Maybe we can practice, some, tomorrow. Just to make ''sure'' I can keep it." It's flirtation in return, though there's no sense of pressure to it; it's what he does, take it or leave it, he won't mind. "I'll find you some blankets. And-- Suri? You're safe here."

Safe. It isn't until he says the words that Suireh relaxes, and it's in the next instant surprise sketches visible lines on her face; that the realization that this was a concern sinks in. This realization spurs a flush to her cheeks and a sudden drop of her eyes, as if embarrassed at what she might have betrayed. "Thanks," says the harper awkwardly and takes a few steps away, only to come back and ask, again embarrassed, "Which one's Mariny?"

There's no judgement in Jaspen's smile, and no pity, either; if he's sympathetic, it's only in an understanding way. Suireh's return has him rising, dusting off his trousers, and then his hands, before he offers the harper his arm. "I'll take you to her," is his gentlemanly offer. Take her, yes - and then leave her to the herb-woman's cheery presence. "You need to keep warm," is her warning, provided along with a bottle of remedy. "You can sleep next to me, if you'd like. My husband's on watch until late, and he'll not want to interrupt my sleep. Unless you and Jas...? He wouldn't turn you away."

Suireh's cheeks turn a very deep shade of red and there isn't even an attempt to school her embarrassment as she catches sight of her feet. Her mouth opens even more awkwardly than before, gaping really, and she finally stammers out, "Here's fine. If you don't mind."

Mariny only laughs, and it's probably not intended to be ''at'' Suireh, whether or not it comes across that way. "I don't mind," she promises. "I wouldn't offer if I did." She's kind enough not to comment further on Jaspen (or his dubious(?) charms); instead, there are only blankets and pillows, and a few cheerful words before she offers her good nights. In the morning, there's food and laughter and more music; true to Jaspen's words, no one asks too many questions, and, for a few days, perhaps it's easy to blend. To belong.

"We'll hit the coast again, tomorrow," one of the women tells Suireh, a few days in. "We've bypassed Sattle, but only just. There's a gather; that's where we're headed. You staying on? It'll be on towards Fort, after that. East; as far as we can. Now that it's getting warmer... ''spring''. You can almost feel it, can't you?" Up north, it's still a ways off, but headed east, headed south, the first signs are certainly there.

Belonging is a strange feeling for Suireh, not having truly belonged anywhere till now and the camaraderie of this feeling has her responding with an immediate, "I'm here," and a quick scan to find where Jaspen is. Where once she might have announced she'd help with a ''let me'', now she merely pitches in, a hand reaching up to help secure a load, tying deft sailor's knots and testing the strength of them. "Onward ho?" she inquires of the woman, merrily enough, and once settled into her spot in this moving train, begins to sing lighthearted songs, around the better-but... persistently lingering cough, to pass the time.

Jaspen's here; he's always here, tending to this and that, with a friendly smile and a warm word for everyone. For Suireh, too-- indeed, it's alongside her, today, that he clambers for a seat once they're in motion, the friendly woman opposite them both. Both join in with the singing, offering harmony to counterpoint Suireh's melody; their voices might not be harper-trained, but it's nonetheless a sweet sound. "We're so lucky," exhales the woman, Haisha, between songs. She's got a small child, a girl who plays with a doll on the wagon floor. "When I was a little girl, this life wouldn't've been possible. My parents, they had wandering feet and nowhere to wander. My girl, she'll never know that."

"Thread," begins Suireh, but thinking better of it turns the one word into a ''harper'' song of Thread and how dragonriders fight it. Her words falter over a stanza that speaks of gold dragons, but picks up again quickly. "There are those," she says after she finishes, "That braved the roads in spite of Thread. Foolish or adventurous?" The question is posed to Jaspen and her hand moves, beyond Haisha's notice, to slip under his daring.

"Foolish," interjects Haisha, albeit with a laugh. "I love this life, but I'm not stupid." "Daring," counters Jaspen, as his hand seeks, idly, to squeeze Suireh's in answer, fingers curving over and under. "You can't give everything up over a bit of danger. You can't... give up. Not if something matters. You just have to be ''smart'' about it. What do you think, Suri?" His dark, almond-eyed gaze turns on her, eyebrows raised quizzically.

Suireh watches the terrain go by, however slowly, then looks down upon Haisha's daughter. "Adventurous, but only if there's someone to share that journey with," she decides. Abruptly, her hand stilling beneath Jaspen's: "Are we going all the way to Fort? Hold?"

Jaspen's hand does not withdraw, but nor does it push; it lingers, a solid presence that doesn't ask too much. "Everything's better with someone to share it with," he agrees. "I wouldn't want to travel alone. Too much time with my thoughts, and I turn into a person I don't like much." His gaze slides past Suireh, past Haisha, past the solid runners that pull their conveyance. "Mm. We don't tend to stay long - they've entertainment enough of their own, of course, and too many competing wares. But it's a good place to pick up new songs." It's as he says it that he glances back at Suireh, watching her.

"Ah." It's no answer at all, but after a long moment, where Suireh is conspicuously silent and still, does her hand turn to entwine fingers with Jaspen's. Later, maybe that night, or perhaps the next, she'll follow him, instead of Mariny, and curl up next to him to sleep.

The look Jaspen offers doesn't ask the questions he promised he wouldn't, but it's clear he's caught something in that syllable, and perhaps it's for that that he squeezes her hand tighter-- or perhaps it's her entwining fingers, or just because he wants to. He doesn't say anything, when she follows him, and nor does he seem to expect anything. Instead, there's only a kiss to the forehead, a blanket tucked in, a warm body beside her all night. Tomorrow, there's the gather, and later, there'll be the road ahead, open to her for as long as she cares to stay; no questions asked.

At the gather, she sings, but doesn't play, accompanied only by Jaspen's drums. That night too, and successive nights afterward, she slips into his bed to hold his hand and sleep. And this becomes a thing, one the traveling performers don't ask questions on but assume plenty and without judgment. It's the night before they approach Fort, that instead of sleeping, Suireh says into the darkness, "I'll rejoin when you leave the Hold. I have something I need to do."

Jaspen doesn't ''encourage'' the assumptions of his peers, but nor does he enlighten then otherwise; nor, as the days pass, one by one, does he push or question or encourage. In the darkness, that night, he turns to ''look'' at her, in the direction of her, his expression unreadable by human eyes. "I'll miss you," he says, letting the words hang, simply. Before they've a chance to turn into a millstone, or become the declaration he surely doesn't mean, he adds, "Do what you need to do, Suri. We'll be on the east road out of Fort in three days. Is that long enough?" Too long?

The smile that wraps around her words is audible. "You'll miss my songs." There's knowing that that's not solely it. "Three days." And by morning, she's awake before him or anyone else, and gone, leaving her gitar next to Jaspen.

Three days later, she's found on the road east out of Fort Hold, waiting with a set of fresh clothing, some new things in her duffel, and clean. Very very clean.

"I'll miss your songs," is agreement enough, coming as it does with a wry chuckle. She ''is'' missed, in the days that follow; by Jaspen, yes, but also others. There's no question of their pleasure in seeing her, those three days later. There's no question in the way Jaspen climbs down from the wagon and draws her into a hug, squeezing her shoulders firmly. "Ready to hit the road?" he wonders, gesturing up. "If we're lucky, we can hit Benden by high summer." And, with a teasing lilt, "You smell like soap."

"I took a three day long shower," is her quip. While she's still in his hug, she leans up and gives him a kiss -- an incongruously expert one given how much she flushed in front of Mariny weeks and weeks before -- and brings his arms down from her shoulders to her waist. "Let's first make it to Five Mines in one piece."

Any quip Jaspen might have made in answer is postponed by that kiss, and by the repositioning of his arms; he draws her snugly in, holding her there for long enough that more than one member of the group in the wagons catcalls, cheerfully. "Five Mines? Huh. Let's aim our sights a ''little'' higher than that, surely. C'mon." Not, in the end, that it seems to matter: they go where they go. Why not? That's the point, after all.

"Five Mines. Then we see," says Suireh firmly. After ''the kiss'', she doesn't make a pretense of Mariny's wagon anymore, not that everyone didn't already know, and wakes from and retires to Jaspen's. During the days, she says things like, "Let me teach you how to read music," and follows through on it with a patience not seen in her previous life. Nights start with kissing and more kissing, and eventually touching above and then beneath clothing and more kissing. She seems content with this, and watchful, as always, to see if he is.

"Five Mines, then." There's no cry of 'I'm too old' in answer to her offers of teaching, and Jaspen's not the only one to pay mind, though he's clearly pleased and proud by his successes - first slow, and then, more rapid - in picking up what she has to offer. By night, Jaspen's patient in his attentions, though it's more than once (if far from always) that he sneaks out into the night - after he thinks (hopes?) she's asleep - to relieve the physical frustrations that perhaps inevitably follow.

Five Mines comes and goes. With the weather getting progressively nicer, the freedom of going wherever they want to is all the more real, and there's no next destination in sight -- just traveling. Laughter bubbles more often from Suireh, much of the wearied sadness on her first encounter with this group fading. And it's on a night after some heavy petting, as he's about to sneak out, that her hand reaches out to catch his. "Don't leave me," the young woman murmurs, her pale, desirous eyes completely void of sleep.

Some of their stops are more lucrative than others, but it's a simple life; they don't need much. It's often, during that day, that Jaspen can be caught simply ''smiling'' at Suireh-- sometimes to catch her eye, and sometimes, just because he can. That night, as her hand captures his, he stills himself. "Come with me," he suggests, with a gesture towards the star-filled night outside. "Unless you--" a pause, his gaze sliding away from hers, briefly, in a moment of unusual awkwardness.

There's a small smile for his awkwardness, and an even more minute shake of her head. Her hand tugs gently, to bring him back to her while her other hand reaches up to unfasten the ties of her nightgown. "I'm sure," she says preemptively, an answer to a question she already surmises is coming.

She's sure, and it catches Jaspen's breath, just for a moment, though it doesn't stop him from allowing her to draw him back in, his own free hand moving to assist her with the nightgown, and afterwards, with his own clothes. He's considerate, taking matters as slowly as he needs to; whatever she needs. After all, he's waited this long.

There's petting and then there's nakedness and though the air is warm, she's suddenly just that little bit frigid. Uncertainty does that to you. So it's slow, and he's patient. Hands explore and re-explore, the tense set of her body easing slowly over time, and then it's done with only a very modest soundtrack to have accompanied the deed. The breathing afterwards might even be heavier than any sound Suireh might have made. Then, there's the very enlightened, "Oh," and then a series of semi-hysterical giggles and two arms that suddenly cling to Jaspen, in case he might take that laughter in an entirely unintended way.

Luckily for Suireh, between Jaspen's own natural confidence, and those clinging arms, there's really nothing for him to do but laugh in return, and squeeze her tight against him, mouth seeking hers for (this time) a kiss that is not aiming to provoke anything but closeness. "I take it that's a good 'oh,'" he teases, through the semi-dark, fingers lifting to brush hair away from her face. "You're all right?"

Between the laughter and the kiss that quiets the laughter, Suireh manages to get out some semblance of, "You build it up and build it up and build it up and you expect that when it happens you might explode. But I'm still here. You're still here." Quieter, a little more awed, is her, "Wow," said into the curve of his body where neck meets shoulders. It's the first time, but certainly not the last time they do this, and by the time they're well into Igen territory by summer's end, she even sheds the pretense of putting on pajamas for bed.

Beyond singing and performing, Suireh teaches the children (and the adults who wish to learn more). Songs, arithmatic, reading. She teaches them the Holds, Crafts, and Weyrs, and sketches the heads of the ones she can recall by memory. Her drawings aren't great, but they're harper-trained passable enough.

"Tell me about yourself," is finally asked of Jaspen, one sunny day as she wrings out her laundry. The wet rag lifts, "I'm not asking questions. Just... whatever you want to share."

It's her 'wow' that makes him smile, the most; the thing that has him draw her closer still, to hold against him despite the sweatiness of their bodies and the summer night.

No one comments on the scope of her knowledge; by now, it's simply an understood thing. Suri knows things. Suri can teach things. What did they do before Suri? Except that, really, she's become so much a part of their group that no one thinks to recall what it was like, then. She's here; she belongs.

"Me?" Jaspen's sitting on the steps of his-- ''their''-- wagon, repairing one of his boots with a surprisingly nimble needle and thread. He's silent for a few moments, ostensibly to line up the pieces of ageing leather, though perhaps it's more to do with his thoughts. "My father was a tanner, as it happens. He had a riding post; that's where these roaming feet came from, I guess. He wore out his own boots time and time again, before he died. I was ten. He always told me, 'A good pair of boots is the best friend you'll ever have, Jas.' Or... is it ''are'' the best friends? Well, whichever. He knew leather. Better than he knew women, or small boys, I guess."

"My mother died when I was seven." She offers this without him asking. The way she speaks, however, doesn't make it seem like she's ''only'' sharing because he did. "I thought I knew her, what she was like, why everyone who knew her seemed to either love her or hate her, but I don't think I really knew anything. Nothing at all really." She sets the squeezed out laundry into her basket and inches over to Jaspen, eyes large and apologetic. It's the easiest way to distract from subjects that are too serious, too real, for this lifestyle. If her basket lies unattended for a few hours and his boot is pushed away (by her) to be lonely in the grass for a while, who really cares? She's not as inept at sex now compared to the beginning and can even manage to listen to the women (and men) make bawdy jokes without flushing.

Sometime after Igen, things change, the beat of drums echo in the distance, and catching their meaning, Suireh suddenly goes still seated next to Haisha. The rest of the day and days thereafter, a tangible cloud of distraction unfocuses the young woman from the day to day tasks.

"I'm not sure we can ever truly know our parents," he says, in reply, though it's plainly not an attempt to draw anything more out, or prolong the conversation. She doesn't need to offer apology, not really; it's not like he's unwilling to offer distraction, or to hold her, afterwards; it's only comfort if she needs it. It's just... it's just Jaspen.

The drumbeats mean nothing to Haisha; nothing to anyone except Suireh, and it's not one of those things you ask about. Drums are harper business; drums are code. Traders and entertainers, they've got their own codes, and you just don't break them. You don't. But Jaspen, he keeps a watchful eye on her, not asking, not probing, and yet... perhaps, in a way, he already knows what the answer would be. Will be.

He doesn't ask, nor does he grieve. But.

It just is. One night, afterwards, she lies there, her head on his chest and arm slung over his torso, and says quietly, "I need to go back." It's not like she isn't aware he knows; it's been the pink herdbeast in the room for days now.

His, "I know," is tainted with the sigh he doesn't quite release; it's full of sorrow, but not regret. "I'd say 'don't leave me,' but..." Those dark eyes look down at her, solemnly. "I've probably always known you couldn't stay forever. You're going to be okay, Suri. When you're back. No... you're going to be ''magnificent''."

"You always thought too highly of me." Some pieces of her old life have returned already, in little mannerisms, and in this response. It's not Suri's gracious acceptance of his pride in her, but Suireh's dubiousness. The harper exhales, tightening the hold of her arm over his chest and kisses his neck in apology for her words. "Thank you." She could say more. She ''wants'' to say more. By morning, she's saying her goodbyes to everyone else and then walks in the direction of Igen Hold.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Off the Grid

2014-12-26T17:00:20Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Suireh, K'del{{!}}Eskai, K'del{{!}}Jaspen
|what=After her grandfather's death, Suireh goes off the grid, only to reemerge somewhere near Igen Hold.
|where=Western to Central Pern
|when=T36 M2 - M7
|gamedate=2014.12.26
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=Thanks to [[K'del/ST]] for running this indulgent scene for me.
|icons-new=Icon suireh.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=The first few days, wandering inland from Sea's Peak and away from Tillek, aren't so bad; there's some rain, but it's mostly just a cold drizzle, and one that comes and goes rather than sticking around. It's not so bad, really. Most people are glad for a song, of an evening. It's not hard to find somewhere to stay, even if it's just on a rug in front of the hearth. A hayloft, maybe, in places so small someone's already claimed the rug. No one asks questions, really. They clamour for a song, for news, for anything that might break the winter monotony, but none of it's personal. Suireh's a harper; no one pays attention to the person behind the strings.

At each place along the way, Suireh plays as asked, happy songs, sad songs, ballads, dancing songs. Her repertoire has breadth and she's not unpleasant to listen to, but there's a distinct lack of something in her singing. Not enough for anyone untrained to notice, but here and there, in those small holds not graced by the presence of a regular harper, there's an ear that can pick it out: that even when singing something jovial, there's a marked sadness beneath it all. "Thank you," says the journeying harper, managing at least a little genuine grace in her voice as she accepts her payment of a stale loaf of bread, some cheese and a hand-me-down pair of shoes. It's payment for an evening of singing and telling of tales, and teaching for a few days for the little ones. Trading out her worn shoes for the new ones, she begins to walk again into the drizzle.

How much meaning does time have, on the road? Dates don't mean much, to some of these people; the season matters, the weather. Not the date. By the calendar, it's half-way through the second month when the weather changes. It's a cold night, even in front of the hearth (and one shared with a somewhat less-than-clean dog, to boot), and no wonder, really: come morning, there's a blanket of snow in the yard, a layer of frost upon the dormant vines, laid out row-upon-row. You'd be welcome to stay a few days," ventures the cotholder's wife, a thin, reedy woman who wheezes, never seen without one child another attached to hip, or breast, or leg. "Grandpa's always felt the weather in his knee; he thinks it'll stay a while. Look - it's still falling. Pretty, isn't it?"

"I-," but where, really, does she have to go and what opinions could she have that could deny the fact of snow on the ground. Suireh's mouth shuts as quickly as it open and those pale eyes of her focus on the following flakes. Dropping her chin, the young harper musters a rueful chuckle and shake of her head. When she next looks up, it's with a smile, a gracious one that doesn't climb to her eyes. "It's beautiful, and I will stay, if you don't mind me taking advantage of your hospitality as such." A cold-calloused hand, fingers brittle from more than a seven spent traveling, catch on the fabric of her pants as she smooths them down. "I...," she looks awkwardly at the child at the woman's hip. "Shall I help with dinner?"

It's the expected answer, just like it was the expected offer; the woman - Eskia - smiles that weary, drawn smile, gesturing towards the stove. "I won't say no. But nothing that will ruin your hands worse than they have been. They're your livelihood, aren't they?" The boy on her hip begins to cry, burying his head into his mother's chest as she sighs, adjusting his position. "I bet you've seen lots of places," she says, over potato chopping and stew-stirring. "Seen lots of interesting things?"

Suri, as she's introduced herself as, flexes her fingers at her side. "Cooking," she decides to say, in lieu of the things she's seen, "Is the least I can do. I can probably manage that," she nods to the potato chopping, "Without cutting myself. I promise. I even know how to fry fish, though you'd have to ask my sister to gut them." There's a better smile for that, one of recollection. "Here," she gently nudges Eskia to the side, and claims the knife for herself. "What would you like to know?"

It's a rare pleasure for Eskia to hand over duties of any kind to anyone else, and she does so with a grateful smile, visibly latching on to this reference to a sister, to fish, to ''anything'' remote from this life that she leads. "Oh, I don't know," she says, rocking the child at her hip. "Anything, really. I've not been further than half a day's walk from here. I've not even seen the sea, or tasted fish. Is it much like chicken?" She leans in, pressing a kiss to her toddler's rumpled hair. "I want better for him. For all of them. But then, isn't that what all parents want, Suri?"

"I... wouldn't know." The statement is drawn out, more thoughtful than startled, though there's a small pinch of the latter in her expression. "I don't really have parents, and no children yet." Suireh begins methodically chopping the potatoes into precise, neat cubes, visibly spacing out her cuts with little nods. "And fish tastes nothing like chicken. It's hard to explain without sounding disgusting and maybe, one day, you'll get the chance to try it and I wouldn't want to have colored your opinion. Once I'm done, do these go in there?" The stew is nodded at.

Eskia is startled, first, and then sympathetic: imagine not really having parents! "One day," she says, firmly, and with a certain amount of false bravado; obviously, this ''must'' be one of Suri's great ambitions! "Yes, put them in. It'll be more potato than meat, but..." A shrug. What can you do? Tomorrow's will be even ''more'' potato, and almost no meat at all, but finally, on the day after that, the sun will shine, the snow will clear, and the road will be open again. It's probably for the best; Eskia's wistful questions grow more pointed by the day. "Go south," Eskia's husband advises, seeing her out (or is it... guiding her out, kicking her out?). "Snow's not melted, yet, north, as I hear it, and there's nothing for you, eastwards. Nothing for ''anyone''."

Song's not much for payment, and even doing work isn't enough when food's dwindling in the winter: this Suireh (and her belly) understand all too well by now. "Aye," agrees the harper, having absorbed some of the accent of this region during her short-lived stay. "South. And... thank you." But before she's completely gone, as she gathers up her meager belongings and slung the gitar over her shoulders, a hand reaches out to give Eskia a spontaneous hug. Later, the woman might find a few quarter mark pieces in her pocket and a small length of a pretty ribbon.

Can Suireh/Suri know what that means to the holder woman? Perhaps she can guess.

Southwards, the road broadens and clears. It's two days later when, as afternoon fades towards evening, darkness encroaching, Suireh's steps bring her to a small cluster of wagons, circled around each other on the side of the road. There's a fire - smoke, rising - and music around it; laughter, too, as someone beats at a drum, and someone else hums along. They've a rich stew, going, the smell of which wafts over the road, and the man on guard, sitting on the back of one of those wagons? His gaze tracks her as she walks.

Still, with food supplies dwindling and a cold aching in her bones, the harper's approach to the caravan doesn't deviate and once she's within earshot (and noseshot of the stew) of the guard, she lifts an arm, with her gitar in it and hails the man. "A song, a story, or news for a place by your fire?" It's become her standard greeting. She doesn't look much: tired, circles about her eyes, and the clothing she's attired in stained, though serviceable for the weather.

The man's long since noticed the gitar at her back, and his expression turns considering at Suireh's offer. "Aye," he says, gesturing towards the inner circle, the fire. "Tell 'em I sent you in. We've had no strings in a turn or more, and no news in days. Come, traveller. Make yourself at home. We've no pretensions, here, but what we've got..."

She'll get a few glances, as she approaches the fire, but they're no more than that; their stew has more meat than most people's, this time of turn, and their eagerness for her music is no less profound. "Your choice," suggests the man with the drum, later, once they've eaten. "Play what you feel. We'll accompany you."

She's shared her news; of High Reaches having lost a queen, of how spring seems to be coming slow this turn, of a little hold that lost one of its patriarchs. It's in that last, that keen eyes might note the story as her own, her own loss and extrapolate as they will. Pale eyes, gleaming above the fire that has only just started to warm her to her bones, considers her crowd, the location, and the stillness of this winter-to-spring night. She idly tunes her instrument, playing chords this way and that until she finds the one she wants and begins to sing, accompanied by herself softly at first, ''that song'' in its harmonic minor key, with its unpolished, haunting words. Though it's a song for seafolk, evoking the images of the ocean, the winds, the seaspray, and that utter stillness of a night out in the middle of nowhere, the latter might tug at the hearts of wanderers anywhere.

Travelling folk, traders; they're entranced by the music, silent in a way they weren't for the sharing of news. The young man with the drum may have promised accompaniment, but his hands falter, instead, smoothing the tanned hide of his instruments with calloused fingers and, instead, simply ''listening''. "You've a fine voice," he tells her, afterwards, in that low, rolling voice of his. "A performer's voice. A performer's gift. Whatever you're run-- no. I take that back. Instead: will you travel with us, for a time? We've a spring gather to head for, but it's only a small one. We've food... company... We'll ask no questions, I promise."

Two days between seeing people, and sevendays worth of living in this fashion, have curbed some of Suireh's pride. Or a lot of it. She doesn't even flinch at his slip of tongue, and instead offers a quiet gratitude in her gaze. "Suri," is her introduction, followed by a low quip paired with a lopsided smirk, "Is my running so obvious?" A cough, the kind that echos deep in her chest, ruins the would be flirtation and causes her to turn her head with a hand to chest to still it. A slow exhale releases the pain into the air, before she's turning to catch the drummer's eyes, with a slow, teasing smile, "Tomorrow night, try to keep up."

"To a man who's been running most of his adult life?" He can't be more than a handful of turns older than she is, but there's a wryness to his voice; he knows, because he's been there, or perhaps still is, even if he seems - seems! - to have found peace, here. "Jaspen. You've a nasty cough, there, Suri. Look after it. Let Mariny dose you up before you sleep, mm? Maybe we can practice, some, tomorrow. Just to make ''sure'' I can keep it." It's flirtation in return, though there's no sense of pressure to it; it's what he does, take it or leave it, he won't mind. "I'll find you some blankets. And-- Suri? You're safe here."

Safe. It isn't until he says the words that Suireh relaxes, and it's in the next instant surprise sketches visible lines on her face; that the realization that this was a concern sinks in. This realization spurs a flush to her cheeks and a sudden drop of her eyes, as if embarrassed at what she might have betrayed. "Thanks," says the harper awkwardly and takes a few steps away, only to come back and ask, again embarrassed, "Which one's Mariny?"

There's no judgement in Jaspen's smile, and no pity, either; if he's sympathetic, it's only in an understanding way. Suireh's return has him rising, dusting off his trousers, and then his hands, before he offers the harper his arm. "I'll take you to her," is his gentlemanly offer. Take her, yes - and then leave her to the herb-woman's cheery presence. "You need to keep warm," is her warning, provided along with a bottle of remedy. "You can sleep next to me, if you'd like. My husband's on watch until late, and he'll not want to interrupt my sleep. Unless you and Jas...? He wouldn't turn you away."

Suireh's cheeks turn a very deep shade of red and there isn't even an attempt to school her embarrassment as she catches sight of her feet. Her mouth opens even more awkwardly than before, gaping really, and she finally stammers out, "Here's fine. If you don't mind."

Mariny only laughs, and it's probably not intended to be ''at'' Suireh, whether or not it comes across that way. "I don't mind," she promises. "I wouldn't offer if I did." She's kind enough not to comment further on Jaspen (or his dubious(?) charms); instead, there are only blankets and pillows, and a few cheerful words before she offers her good nights. In the morning, there's food and laughter and more music; true to Jaspen's words, no one asks too many questions, and, for a few days, perhaps it's easy to blend. To belong.

"We'll hit the coast again, tomorrow," one of the women tells Suireh, a few days in. "We've bypassed Sattle, but only just. There's a gather; that's where we're headed. You staying on? It'll be on towards Fort, after that. East; as far as we can. Now that it's getting warmer... ''spring''. You can almost feel it, can't you?" Up north, it's still a ways off, but headed east, headed south, the first signs are certainly there.

Belonging is a strange feeling for Suireh, not having truly belonged anywhere till now and the camaraderie of this feeling has her responding with an immediate, "I'm here," and a quick scan to find where Jaspen is. Where once she might have announced she'd help with a ''let me'', now she merely pitches in, a hand reaching up to help secure a load, tying deft sailor's knots and testing the strength of them. "Onward ho?" she inquires of the woman, merrily enough, and once settled into her spot in this moving train, begins to sing lighthearted songs, around the better-but... persistently lingering cough, to pass the time.

Jaspen's here; he's always here, tending to this and that, with a friendly smile and a warm word for everyone. For Suireh, too-- indeed, it's alongside her, today, that he clambers for a seat once they're in motion, the friendly woman opposite them both. Both join in with the singing, offering harmony to counterpoint Suireh's melody; their voices might not be harper-trained, but it's nonetheless a sweet sound. "We're so lucky," exhales the woman, Haisha, between songs. She's got a small child, a girl who plays with a doll on the wagon floor. "When I was a little girl, this life wouldn't've been possible. My parents, they had wandering feet and nowhere to wander. My girl, she'll never know that."

"Thread," begins Suireh, but thinking better of it turns the one word into a ''harper'' song of Thread and how dragonriders fight it. Her words falter over a stanza that speaks of gold dragons, but picks up again quickly. "There are those," she says after she finishes, "That braved the roads in spite of Thread. Foolish or adventurous?" The question is posed to Jaspen and her hand moves, beyond Haisha's notice, to slip under his daring.

"Foolish," interjects Haisha, albeit with a laugh. "I love this life, but I'm not stupid." "Daring," counters Jaspen, as his hand seeks, idly, to squeeze Suireh's in answer, fingers curving over and under. "You can't give everything up over a bit of danger. You can't... give up. Not if something matters. You just have to be ''smart'' about it. What do you think, Suri?" His dark, almond-eyed gaze turns on her, eyebrows raised quizzically.

Suireh watches the terrain go by, however slowly, then looks down upon Haisha's daughter. "Adventurous, but only if there's someone to share that journey with," she decides. Abruptly, her hand stilling beneath Jaspen's: "Are we going all the way to Fort? Hold?"

Jaspen's hand does not withdraw, but nor does it push; it lingers, a solid presence that doesn't ask too much. "Everything's better with someone to share it with," he agrees. "I wouldn't want to travel alone. Too much time with my thoughts, and I turn into a person I don't like much." His gaze slides past Suireh, past Haisha, past the solid runners that pull their conveyance. "Mm. We don't tend to stay long - they've entertainment enough of their own, of course, and too many competing wares. But it's a good place to pick up new songs." It's as he says it that he glances back at Suireh, watching her.

"Ah." It's no answer at all, but after a long moment, where Suireh is conspicuously silent and still, does her hand turn to entwine fingers with Jaspen's. Later, maybe that night, or perhaps the next, she'll follow him, instead of Mariny, and curl up next to him to sleep.

The look Jaspen offers doesn't ask the questions he promised he wouldn't, but it's clear he's caught something in that syllable, and perhaps it's for that that he squeezes her hand tighter-- or perhaps it's her entwining fingers, or just because he wants to. He doesn't say anything, when she follows him, and nor does he seem to expect anything. Instead, there's only a kiss to the forehead, a blanket tucked in, a warm body beside her all night. Tomorrow, there's the gather, and later, there'll be the road ahead, open to her for as long as she cares to stay; no questions asked.

At the gather, she sings, but doesn't play, accompanied only by Jaspen's drums. That night too, and successive nights afterward, she slips into his bed to hold his hand and sleep. And this becomes a thing, one the traveling performers don't ask questions on but assume plenty and without judgment. It's the night before they approach Fort, that instead of sleeping, Suireh says into the darkness, "I'll rejoin when you leave the Hold. I have something I need to do."

Jaspen doesn't ''encourage'' the assumptions of his peers, but nor does he enlighten then otherwise; nor, as the days pass, one by one, does he push or question or encourage. In the darkness, that night, he turns to ''look'' at her, in the direction of her, his expression unreadable by human eyes. "I'll miss you," he says, letting the words hang, simply. Before they've a chance to turn into a millstone, or become the declaration he surely doesn't mean, he adds, "Do what you need to do, Suri. We'll be on the east road out of Fort in three days. Is that long enough?" Too long?

The smile that wraps around her words is audible. "You'll miss my songs." There's knowing that that's not solely it. "Three days." And by morning, she's awake before him or anyone else, and gone, leaving her gitar next to Jaspen.

Three days later, she's found on the road east out of Fort Hold, waiting with a set of fresh clothing, some new things in her duffel, and clean. Very very clean.

"I'll miss your songs," is agreement enough, coming as it does with a wry chuckle. She ''is'' missed, in the days that follow; by Jaspen, yes, but also others. There's no question of their pleasure in seeing her, those three days later. There's no question in the way Jaspen climbs down from the wagon and draws her into a hug, squeezing her shoulders firmly. "Ready to hit the road?" he wonders, gesturing up. "If we're lucky, we can hit Benden by high summer." And, with a teasing lilt, "You smell like soap."

"I took a three day long shower," is her quip. While she's still in his hug, she leans up and gives him a kiss -- an incongruously expert one given how much she flushed in front of Mariny weeks and weeks before -- and brings his arms down from her shoulders to her waist. "Let's first make it to Five Mines in one piece."

Any quip Jaspen might have made in answer is postponed by that kiss, and by the repositioning of his arms; he draws her snugly in, holding her there for long enough that more than one member of the group in the wagons catcalls, cheerfully. "Five Mines? Huh. Let's aim our sights a ''little'' higher than that, surely. C'mon." Not, in the end, that it seems to matter: they go where they go. Why not? That's the point, after all.

"Five Mines. Then we see," says Suireh firmly. After ''the kiss'', she doesn't make a pretense of Mariny's wagon anymore, not that everyone didn't already know, and wakes from and retires to Jaspen's. During the days, she says things like, "Let me teach you how to read music," and follows through on it with a patience not seen in her previous life. Nights start with kissing and more kissing, and eventually touching above and then beneath clothing and more kissing. She seems content with this, and watchful, as always, to see if he is.

"Five Mines, then." There's no cry of 'I'm too old' in answer to her offers of teaching, and Jaspen's not the only one to pay mind, though he's clearly pleased and proud by his successes - first slow, and then, more rapid - in picking up what she has to offer. By night, Jaspen's patient in his attentions, though it's more than once (if far from always) that he sneaks out into the night - after he thinks (hopes?) she's asleep - to relieve the physical frustrations that perhaps inevitably follow.

Five Mines comes and goes. With the weather getting progressively nicer, the freedom of going wherever they want to is all the more real, and there's no next destination in sight -- just traveling. Laughter bubbles more often from Suireh, much of the wearied sadness on her first encounter with this group fading. And it's on a night after some heavy petting, as he's about to sneak out, that her hand reaches out to catch his. "Don't leave me," the young woman murmurs, her pale, desirous eyes completely void of sleep.

Some of their stops are more lucrative than others, but it's a simple life; they don't need much. It's often, during that day, that Jaspen can be caught simply ''smiling'' at Suireh-- sometimes to catch her eye, and sometimes, just because he can. That night, as her hand captures his, he stills himself. "Come with me," he suggests, with a gesture towards the star-filled night outside. "Unless you--" a pause, his gaze sliding away from hers, briefly, in a moment of unusual awkwardness.

There's a small smile for his awkwardness, and an even more minute shake of her head. Her hand tugs gently, to bring him back to her while her other hand reaches up to unfasten the ties of her nightgown. "I'm sure," she says preemptively, an answer to a question she already surmises is coming.

She's sure, and it catches Jaspen's breath, just for a moment, though it doesn't stop him from allowing her to draw him back in, his own free hand moving to assist her with the nightgown, and afterwards, with his own clothes. He's considerate, taking matters as slowly as he needs to; whatever she needs. After all, he's waited this long.

There's petting and then there's nakedness and though the air is warm, she's suddenly just that little bit frigid. Uncertainty does that to you. So it's slow, and he's patient. Hands explore and re-explore, the tense set of her body easing slowly over time, and then it's done with only a very modest soundtrack to have accompanied the deed. The breathing afterwards might even be heavier than any sound Suireh might have made. Then, there's the very enlightened, "Oh," and then a series of semi-hysterical giggles and two arms that suddenly cling to Jaspen, in case he might take that laughter in an entirely unintended way.

Luckily for Suireh, between Jaspen's own natural confidence, and those clinging arms, there's really nothing for him to do but laugh in return, and squeeze her tight against him, mouth seeking hers for (this time) a kiss that is not aiming to provoke anything but closeness. "I take it that's a good 'oh,'" he teases, through the semi-dark, fingers lifting to brush hair away from her face. "You're all right?"

Between the laughter and the kiss that quiets the laughter, Suireh manages to get out some semblance of, "You build it up and build it up and build it up and you expect that when it happens you might explode. But I'm still here. You're still here." Quieter, a little more awed, is her, "Wow," said into the curve of his body where neck meets shoulders. It's the first time, but certainly not the last time they do this, and by the time they're well into Igen territory by summer's end, she even sheds the pretense of putting on pajamas for bed.

Beyond singing and performing, Suireh teaches the children (and the adults who wish to learn more). Songs, arithmatic, reading. She teaches them the Holds, Crafts, and Weyrs, and sketches the heads of the ones she can recall by memory. Her drawings aren't great, but they're harper-trained passable enough.

"Tell me about yourself," is finally asked of Jaspen, one sunny day as she wrings out her laundry. The wet rag lifts, "I'm not asking questions. Just... whatever you want to share."

It's her 'wow' that makes him smile, the most; the thing that has him draw her closer still, to hold against him despite the sweatiness of their bodies and the summer night.

No one comments on the scope of her knowledge; by now, it's simply an understood thing. Suri knows things. Suri can teach things. What did they do before Suri? Except that, really, she's become so much a part of their group that no one thinks to recall what it was like, then. She's here; she belongs.

"Me?" Jaspen's sitting on the steps of his-- ''their''-- wagon, repairing one of his boots with a surprisingly nimble needle and thread. He's silent for a few moments, ostensibly to line up the pieces of ageing leather, though perhaps it's more to do with his thoughts. "My father was a tanner, as it happens. He had a riding post; that's where these roaming feet came from, I guess. He wore out his own boots time and time again, before he died. I was ten. He always told me, 'A good pair of boots is the best friend you'll ever have, Jas.' Or... is it ''are'' the best friends? Well, whichever. He knew leather. Better than he knew women, or small boys, I guess."

"My mother died when I was seven." She offers this without him asking. The way she speaks, however, doesn't make it seem like she's ''only'' sharing because he did. "I thought I knew her, what she was like, why everyone who knew her seemed to either love her or hate her, but I don't think I really knew anything. Nothing at all really." She sets the squeezed out laundry into her basket and inches over to Jaspen, eyes large and apologetic. It's the easiest way to distract from subjects that are too serious, too real, for this lifestyle. If her basket lies unattended for a few hours and his boot is pushed away (by her) to be lonely in the grass for a while, who really cares? She's not as inept at sex now compared to the beginning and can even manage to listen to the women (and men) make bawdy jokes without flushing.

Sometime after Igen, things change, the beat of drums echo in the distance, and catching their meaning, Suireh suddenly goes still seated next to Haisha. The rest of the day and days thereafter, a tangible cloud of distraction unfocuses the young woman from the day to day tasks.

"I'm not sure we can ever truly know our parents," he says, in reply, though it's plainly not an attempt to draw anything more out, or prolong the conversation. She doesn't need to offer apology, not really; it's not like he's unwilling to offer distraction, or to hold her, afterwards; it's only comfort if she needs it. It's just... it's just Jaspen.

The drumbeats mean nothing to Haisha; nothing to anyone except Suireh, and it's not one of those things you ask about. Drums are harper business; drums are code. Traders and entertainers, they've got their own codes, and you just don't break them. You don't. But Jaspen, he keeps a watchful eye on her, not asking, not probing, and yet... perhaps, in a way, he already knows what the answer would be. Will be.

He doesn't ask, nor does he grieve. But.

It just is. One night, afterwards, she lies there, her head on his chest and arm slung over his torso, and says quietly, "I need to go back." It's not like she isn't aware he knows; it's been the pink herdbeast in the room for days now.

His, "I know," is tainted with the sigh he doesn't quite release; it's full of sorrow, but not regret. "I'd say 'don't leave me,' but..." Those dark eyes look down at her, solemnly. "I've probably always known you couldn't stay forever. You're going to be okay, Suri. When you're back. No... you're going to be ''magnificent''."

"You always thought too highly of me." Some pieces of her old life have returned already, in little mannerisms, and in this response. It's not Suri's gracious acceptance of his pride in her, but Suireh's dubiousness. The harper exhales, tightening the hold of her arm over his chest and kisses his neck in apology for her words. "Thank you." She could say more. She ''wants'' to say more. By morning, she's saying her goodbyes to everyone else and then walks in the direction of Igen Hold.
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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
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Logs:Off the Grid

2014-12-26T16:57:35Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Suireh, K'del|Eskai, K'del|Jaspen |what=After her grandfather's death, Suireh goes off the grid, only to reemerge somewhere near Igen Hold. |where=Western to Centra..."

{{Log
|who=Suireh, K'del|Eskai, K'del|Jaspen
|what=After her grandfather's death, Suireh goes off the grid, only to reemerge somewhere near Igen Hold.
|where=Western to Central Pern
|when=T36 M2 - M7
|gamedate=2014.12.26
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=Thanks to [[K'del/ST]] for running this indulgent scene for me.
|icons-new=Icon suireh.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=The first few days, wandering inland from Sea's Peak and away from Tillek, aren't so bad; there's some rain, but it's mostly just a cold drizzle, and one that comes and goes rather than sticking around. It's not so bad, really. Most people are glad for a song, of an evening. It's not hard to find somewhere to stay, even if it's just on a rug in front of the hearth. A hayloft, maybe, in places so small someone's already claimed the rug. No one asks questions, really. They clamour for a song, for news, for anything that might break the winter monotony, but none of it's personal. Suireh's a harper; no one pays attention to the person behind the strings.

At each place along the way, Suireh plays as asked, happy songs, sad songs, ballads, dancing songs. Her repertoire has breadth and she's not unpleasant to listen to, but there's a distinct lack of something in her singing. Not enough for anyone untrained to notice, but here and there, in those small holds not graced by the presence of a regular harper, there's an ear that can pick it out: that even when singing something jovial, there's a marked sadness beneath it all. "Thank you," says the journeying harper, managing at least a little genuine grace in her voice as she accepts her payment of a stale loaf of bread, some cheese and a hand-me-down pair of shoes. It's payment for an evening of singing and telling of tales, and teaching for a few days for the little ones. Trading out her worn shoes for the new ones, she begins to walk again into the drizzle.

How much meaning does time have, on the road? Dates don't mean much, to some of these people; the season matters, the weather. Not the date. By the calendar, it's half-way through the second month when the weather changes. It's a cold night, even in front of the hearth (and one shared with a somewhat less-than-clean dog, to boot), and no wonder, really: come morning, there's a blanket of snow in the yard, a layer of frost upon the dormant vines, laid out row-upon-row. You'd be welcome to stay a few days," ventures the cotholder's wife, a thin, reedy woman who wheezes, never seen without one child another attached to hip, or breast, or leg. "Grandpa's always felt the weather in his knee; he thinks it'll stay a while. Look - it's still falling. Pretty, isn't it?"

"I-," but where, really, does she have to go and what opinions could she have that could deny the fact of snow on the ground. Suireh's mouth shuts as quickly as it open and those pale eyes of her focus on the following flakes. Dropping her chin, the young harper musters a rueful chuckle and shake of her head. When she next looks up, it's with a smile, a gracious one that doesn't climb to her eyes. "It's beautiful, and I will stay, if you don't mind me taking advantage of your hospitality as such." A cold-calloused hand, fingers brittle from more than a seven spent traveling, catch on the fabric of her pants as she smooths them down. "I...," she looks awkwardly at the child at the woman's hip. "Shall I help with dinner?"

It's the expected answer, just like it was the expected offer; the woman - Eskia - smiles that weary, drawn smile, gesturing towards the stove. "I won't say no. But nothing that will ruin your hands worse than they have been. They're your livelihood, aren't they?" The boy on her hip begins to cry, burying his head into his mother's chest as she sighs, adjusting his position. "I bet you've seen lots of places," she says, over potato chopping and stew-stirring. "Seen lots of interesting things?"

Suri, as she's introduced herself as, flexes her fingers at her side. "Cooking," she decides to say, in lieu of the things she's seen, "Is the least I can do. I can probably manage that," she nods to the potato chopping, "Without cutting myself. I promise. I even know how to fry fish, though you'd have to ask my sister to gut them." There's a better smile for that, one of recollection. "Here," she gently nudges Eskia to the side, and claims the knife for herself. "What would you like to know?"

It's a rare pleasure for Eskia to hand over duties of any kind to anyone else, and she does so with a grateful smile, visibly latching on to this reference to a sister, to fish, to ''anything'' remote from this life that she leads. "Oh, I don't know," she says, rocking the child at her hip. "Anything, really. I've not been further than half a day's walk from here. I've not even seen the sea, or tasted fish. Is it much like chicken?" She leans in, pressing a kiss to her toddler's rumpled hair. "I want better for him. For all of them. But then, isn't that what all parents want, Suri?"

"I... wouldn't know." The statement is drawn out, more thoughtful than startled, though there's a small pinch of the latter in her expression. "I don't really have parents, and no children yet." Suireh begins methodically chopping the potatoes into precise, neat cubes, visibly spacing out her cuts with little nods. "And fish tastes nothing like chicken. It's hard to explain without sounding disgusting and maybe, one day, you'll get the chance to try it and I wouldn't want to have colored your opinion. Once I'm done, do these go in there?" The stew is nodded at.

Eskia is startled, first, and then sympathetic: imagine not really having parents! "One day," she says, firmly, and with a certain amount of false bravado; obviously, this ''must'' be one of Suri's great ambitions! "Yes, put them in. It'll be more potato than meat, but..." A shrug. What can you do? Tomorrow's will be even ''more'' potato, and almost no meat at all, but finally, on the day after that, the sun will shine, the snow will clear, and the road will be open again. It's probably for the best; Eskia's wistful questions grow more pointed by the day. "Go south," Eskia's husband advises, seeing her out (or is it... guiding her out, kicking her out?). "Snow's not melted, yet, north, as I hear it, and there's nothing for you, eastwards. Nothing for ''anyone''."

Song's not much for payment, and even doing work isn't enough when food's dwindling in the winter: this Suireh (and her belly) understand all too well by now. "Aye," agrees the harper, having absorbed some of the accent of this region during her short-lived stay. "South. And... thank you." But before she's completely gone, as she gathers up her meager belongings and slung the gitar over her shoulders, a hand reaches out to give Eskia a spontaneous hug. Later, the woman might find a few quarter mark pieces in her pocket and a small length of a pretty ribbon.

Can Suireh/Suri know what that means to the holder woman? Perhaps she can guess.

Southwards, the road broadens and clears. It's two days later when, as afternoon fades towards evening, darkness encroaching, Suireh's steps bring her to a small cluster of wagons, circled around each other on the side of the road. There's a fire - smoke, rising - and music around it; laughter, too, as someone beats at a drum, and someone else hums along. They've a rich stew, going, the smell of which wafts over the road, and the man on guard, sitting on the back of one of those wagons? His gaze tracks her as she walks.

Still, with food supplies dwindling and a cold aching in her bones, the harper's approach to the caravan doesn't deviate and once she's within earshot (and noseshot of the stew) of the guard, she lifts an arm, with her gitar in it and hails the man. "A song, a story, or news for a place by your fire?" It's become her standard greeting. She doesn't look much: tired, circles about her eyes, and the clothing she's attired in stained, though serviceable for the weather.

The man's long since noticed the gitar at her back, and his expression turns considering at Suireh's offer. "Aye," he says, gesturing towards the inner circle, the fire. "Tell 'em I sent you in. We've had no strings in a turn or more, and no news in days. Come, traveller. Make yourself at home. We've no pretensions, here, but what we've got..."

She'll get a few glances, as she approaches the fire, but they're no more than that; their stew has more meat than most people's, this time of turn, and their eagerness for her music is no less profound. "Your choice," suggests the man with the drum, later, once they've eaten. "Play what you feel. We'll accompany you."

She's shared her news; of High Reaches having lost a queen, of how spring seems to be coming slow this turn, of a little hold that lost one of its patriarchs. It's in that last, that keen eyes might note the story as her own, her own loss and extrapolate as they will. Pale eyes, gleaming above the fire that has only just started to warm her to her bones, considers her crowd, the location, and the stillness of this winter-to-spring night. She idly tunes her instrument, playing chords this way and that until she finds the one she wants and begins to sing, accompanied by herself softly at first, ''that song'' in its harmonic minor key, with its unpolished, haunting words. Though it's a song for seafolk, evoking the images of the ocean, the winds, the seaspray, and that utter stillness of a night out in the middle of nowhere, the latter might tug at the hearts of wanderers anywhere.

Travelling folk, traders; they're entranced by the music, silent in a way they weren't for the sharing of news. The young man with the drum may have promised accompaniment, but his hands falter, instead, smoothing the tanned hide of his instruments with calloused fingers and, instead, simply ''listening''. "You've a fine voice," he tells her, afterwards, in that low, rolling voice of his. "A performer's voice. A performer's gift. Whatever you're run-- no. I take that back. Instead: will you travel with us, for a time? We've a spring gather to head for, but it's only a small one. We've food... company... We'll ask no questions, I promise."

Two days between seeing people, and sevendays worth of living in this fashion, have curbed some of Suireh's pride. Or a lot of it. She doesn't even flinch at his slip of tongue, and instead offers a quiet gratitude in her gaze. "Suri," is her introduction, followed by a low quip paired with a lopsided smirk, "Is my running so obvious?" A cough, the kind that echos deep in her chest, ruins the would be flirtation and causes her to turn her head with a hand to chest to still it. A slow exhale releases the pain into the air, before she's turning to catch the drummer's eyes, with a slow, teasing smile, "Tomorrow night, try to keep up."

"To a man who's been running most of his adult life?" He can't be more than a handful of turns older than she is, but there's a wryness to his voice; he knows, because he's been there, or perhaps still is, even if he seems - seems! - to have found peace, here. "Jaspen. You've a nasty cough, there, Suri. Look after it. Let Mariny dose you up before you sleep, mm? Maybe we can practice, some, tomorrow. Just to make ''sure'' I can keep it." It's flirtation in return, though there's no sense of pressure to it; it's what he does, take it or leave it, he won't mind. "I'll find you some blankets. And-- Suri? You're safe here."

Safe. It isn't until he says the words that Suireh relaxes, and it's in the next instant surprise sketches visible lines on her face; that the realization that this was a concern sinks in. This realization spurs a flush to her cheeks and a sudden drop of her eyes, as if embarrassed at what she might have betrayed. "Thanks," says the harper awkwardly and takes a few steps away, only to come back and ask, again embarrassed, "Which one's Mariny?"

There's no judgement in Jaspen's smile, and no pity, either; if he's sympathetic, it's only in an understanding way. Suireh's return has him rising, dusting off his trousers, and then his hands, before he offers the harper his arm. "I'll take you to her," is his gentlemanly offer. Take her, yes - and then leave her to the herb-woman's cheery presence. "You need to keep warm," is her warning, provided along with a bottle of remedy. "You can sleep next to me, if you'd like. My husband's on watch until late, and he'll not want to interrupt my sleep. Unless you and Jas...? He wouldn't turn you away."

Suireh's cheeks turn a very deep shade of red and there isn't even an attempt to school her embarrassment as she catches sight of her feet. Her mouth opens even more awkwardly than before, gaping really, and she finally stammers out, "Here's fine. If you don't mind."

Mariny only laughs, and it's probably not intended to be ''at'' Suireh, whether or not it comes across that way. "I don't mind," she promises. "I wouldn't offer if I did." She's kind enough not to comment further on Jaspen (or his dubious(?) charms); instead, there are only blankets and pillows, and a few cheerful words before she offers her good nights. In the morning, there's food and laughter and more music; true to Jaspen's words, no one asks too many questions, and, for a few days, perhaps it's easy to blend. To belong.

"We'll hit the coast again, tomorrow," one of the women tells Suireh, a few days in. "We've bypassed Sattle, but only just. There's a gather; that's where we're headed. You staying on? It'll be on towards Fort, after that. East; as far as we can. Now that it's getting warmer... ''spring''. You can almost feel it, can't you?" Up north, it's still a ways off, but headed east, headed south, the first signs are certainly there.

Belonging is a strange feeling for Suireh, not having truly belonged anywhere till now and the camaraderie of this feeling has her responding with an immediate, "I'm here," and a quick scan to find where Jaspen is. Where once she might have announced she'd help with a ''let me'', now she merely pitches in, a hand reaching up to help secure a load, tying deft sailor's knots and testing the strength of them. "Onward ho?" she inquires of the woman, merrily enough, and once settled into her spot in this moving train, begins to sing lighthearted songs, around the better-but... persistently lingering cough, to pass the time.

Jaspen's here; he's always here, tending to this and that, with a friendly smile and a warm word for everyone. For Suireh, too-- indeed, it's alongside her, today, that he clambers for a seat once they're in motion, the friendly woman opposite them both. Both join in with the singing, offering harmony to counterpoint Suireh's melody; their voices might not be harper-trained, but it's nonetheless a sweet sound. "We're so lucky," exhales the woman, Haisha, between songs. She's got a small child, a girl who plays with a doll on the wagon floor. "When I was a little girl, this life wouldn't've been possible. My parents, they had wandering feet and nowhere to wander. My girl, she'll never know that."

"Thread," begins Suireh, but thinking better of it turns the one word into a ''harper'' song of Thread and how dragonriders fight it. Her words falter over a stanza that speaks of gold dragons, but picks up again quickly. "There are those," she says after she finishes, "That braved the roads in spite of Thread. Foolish or adventurous?" The question is posed to Jaspen and her hand moves, beyond Haisha's notice, to slip under his daring.

"Foolish," interjects Haisha, albeit with a laugh. "I love this life, but I'm not stupid." "Daring," counters Jaspen, as his hand seeks, idly, to squeeze Suireh's in answer, fingers curving over and under. "You can't give everything up over a bit of danger. You can't... give up. Not if something matters. You just have to be ''smart'' about it. What do you think, Suri?" His dark, almond-eyed gaze turns on her, eyebrows raised quizzically.

Suireh watches the terrain go by, however slowly, then looks down upon Haisha's daughter. "Adventurous, but only if there's someone to share that journey with," she decides. Abruptly, her hand stilling beneath Jaspen's: "Are we going all the way to Fort? Hold?"

Jaspen's hand does not withdraw, but nor does it push; it lingers, a solid presence that doesn't ask too much. "Everything's better with someone to share it with," he agrees. "I wouldn't want to travel alone. Too much time with my thoughts, and I turn into a person I don't like much." His gaze slides past Suireh, past Haisha, past the solid runners that pull their conveyance. "Mm. We don't tend to stay long - they've entertainment enough of their own, of course, and too many competing wares. But it's a good place to pick up new songs." It's as he says it that he glances back at Suireh, watching her.

"Ah." It's no answer at all, but after a long moment, where Suireh is conspicuously silent and still, does her hand turn to entwine fingers with Jaspen's. Later, maybe that night, or perhaps the next, she'll follow him, instead of Mariny, and curl up next to him to sleep.

The look Jaspen offers doesn't ask the questions he promised he wouldn't, but it's clear he's caught something in that syllable, and perhaps it's for that that he squeezes her hand tighter-- or perhaps it's her entwining fingers, or just because he wants to. He doesn't say anything, when she follows him, and nor does he seem to expect anything. Instead, there's only a kiss to the forehead, a blanket tucked in, a warm body beside her all night. Tomorrow, there's the gather, and later, there'll be the road ahead, open to her for as long as she cares to stay; no questions asked.

At the gather, she sings, but doesn't play, accompanied only by Jaspen's drums. That night too, and successive nights afterward, she slips into his bed to hold his hand and sleep. And this becomes a thing, one the traveling performers don't ask questions on but assume plenty and without judgment. It's the night before they approach Fort, that instead of sleeping, Suireh says into the darkness, "I'll rejoin when you leave the Hold. I have something I need to do."

Jaspen doesn't ''encourage'' the assumptions of his peers, but nor does he enlighten then otherwise; nor, as the days pass, one by one, does he push or question or encourage. In the darkness, that night, he turns to ''look'' at her, in the direction of her, his expression unreadable by human eyes. "I'll miss you," he says, letting the words hang, simply. Before they've a chance to turn into a millstone, or become the declaration he surely doesn't mean, he adds, "Do what you need to do, Suri. We'll be on the east road out of Fort in three days. Is that long enough?" Too long?

The smile that wraps around her words is audible. "You'll miss my songs." There's knowing that that's not solely it. "Three days." And by morning, she's awake before him or anyone else, and gone, leaving her gitar next to Jaspen.

Three days later, she's found on the road east out of Fort Hold, waiting with a set of fresh clothing, some new things in her duffel, and clean. Very very clean.

"I'll miss your songs," is agreement enough, coming as it does with a wry chuckle. She ''is'' missed, in the days that follow; by Jaspen, yes, but also others. There's no question of their pleasure in seeing her, those three days later. There's no question in the way Jaspen climbs down from the wagon and draws her into a hug, squeezing her shoulders firmly. "Ready to hit the road?" he wonders, gesturing up. "If we're lucky, we can hit Benden by high summer." And, with a teasing lilt, "You smell like soap."

"I took a three day long shower," is her quip. While she's still in his hug, she leans up and gives him a kiss -- an incongruously expert one given how much she flushed in front of Mariny weeks and weeks before -- and brings his arms down from her shoulders to her waist. "Let's first make it to Five Mines in one piece."

Any quip Jaspen might have made in answer is postponed by that kiss, and by the repositioning of his arms; he draws her snugly in, holding her there for long enough that more than one member of the group in the wagons catcalls, cheerfully. "Five Mines? Huh. Let's aim our sights a ''little'' higher than that, surely. C'mon." Not, in the end, that it seems to matter: they go where they go. Why not? That's the point, after all.

"Five Mines. Then we see," says Suireh firmly. After ''the kiss'', she doesn't make a pretense of Mariny's wagon anymore, not that everyone didn't already know, and wakes from and retires to Jaspen's. During the days, she says things like, "Let me teach you how to read music," and follows through on it with a patience not seen in her previous life. Nights start with kissing and more kissing, and eventually touching above and then beneath clothing and more kissing. She seems content with this, and watchful, as always, to see if he is.

"Five Mines, then." There's no cry of 'I'm too old' in answer to her offers of teaching, and Jaspen's not the only one to pay mind, though he's clearly pleased and proud by his successes - first slow, and then, more rapid - in picking up what she has to offer. By night, Jaspen's patient in his attentions, though it's more than once (if far from always) that he sneaks out into the night - after he thinks (hopes?) she's asleep - to relieve the physical frustrations that perhaps inevitably follow.

Five Mines comes and goes. With the weather getting progressively nicer, the freedom of going wherever they want to is all the more real, and there's no next destination in sight -- just traveling. Laughter bubbles more often from Suireh, much of the wearied sadness on her first encounter with this group fading. And it's on a night after some heavy petting, as he's about to sneak out, that her hand reaches out to catch his. "Don't leave me," the young woman murmurs, her pale, desirous eyes completely void of sleep.

Some of their stops are more lucrative than others, but it's a simple life; they don't need much. It's often, during that day, that Jaspen can be caught simply ''smiling'' at Suireh-- sometimes to catch her eye, and sometimes, just because he can. That night, as her hand captures his, he stills himself. "Come with me," he suggests, with a gesture towards the star-filled night outside. "Unless you--" a pause, his gaze sliding away from hers, briefly, in a moment of unusual awkwardness.

There's a small smile for his awkwardness, and an even more minute shake of her head. Her hand tugs gently, to bring him back to her while her other hand reaches up to unfasten the ties of her nightgown. "I'm sure," she says preemptively, an answer to a question she already surmises is coming.

She's sure, and it catches Jaspen's breath, just for a moment, though it doesn't stop him from allowing her to draw him back in, his own free hand moving to assist her with the nightgown, and afterwards, with his own clothes. He's considerate, taking matters as slowly as he needs to; whatever she needs. After all, he's waited this long.

There's petting and then there's nakedness and though the air is warm, she's suddenly just that little bit frigid. Uncertainty does that to you. So it's slow, and he's patient. Hands explore and re-explore, the tense set of her body easing slowly over time, and then it's done with only a very modest soundtrack to have accompanied the deed. The breathing afterwards might even be heavier than any sound Suireh might have made. Then, there's the very enlightened, "Oh," and then a series of semi-hysterical giggles and two arms that suddenly cling to Jaspen, in case he might take that laughter in an entirely unintended way.

Luckily for Suireh, between Jaspen's own natural confidence, and those clinging arms, there's really nothing for him to do but laugh in return, and squeeze her tight against him, mouth seeking hers for (this time) a kiss that is not aiming to provoke anything but closeness. "I take it that's a good 'oh,'" he teases, through the semi-dark, fingers lifting to brush hair away from her face. "You're all right?"

Between the laughter and the kiss that quiets the laughter, Suireh manages to get out some semblance of, "You build it up and build it up and build it up and you expect that when it happens you might explode. But I'm still here. You're still here." Quieter, a little more awed, is her, "Wow," said into the curve of his body where neck meets shoulders. It's the first time, but certainly not the last time they do this, and by the time they're well into Igen territory by summer's end, she even sheds the pretense of putting on pajamas for bed.

Beyond singing and performing, Suireh teaches the children (and the adults who wish to learn more). Songs, arithmatic, reading. She teaches them the Holds, Crafts, and Weyrs, and sketches the heads of the ones she can recall by memory. Her drawings aren't great, but they're harper-trained passable enough.

"Tell me about yourself," is finally asked of Jaspen, one sunny day as she wrings out her laundry. The wet rag lifts, "I'm not asking questions. Just... whatever you want to share."

It's her 'wow' that makes him smile, the most; the thing that has him draw her closer still, to hold against him despite the sweatiness of their bodies and the summer night.

No one comments on the scope of her knowledge; by now, it's simply an understood thing. Suri knows things. Suri can teach things. What did they do before Suri? Except that, really, she's become so much a part of their group that no one thinks to recall what it was like, then. She's here; she belongs.

"Me?" Jaspen's sitting on the steps of his-- ''their''-- wagon, repairing one of his boots with a surprisingly nimble needle and thread. He's silent for a few moments, ostensibly to line up the pieces of ageing leather, though perhaps it's more to do with his thoughts. "My father was a tanner, as it happens. He had a riding post; that's where these roaming feet came from, I guess. He wore out his own boots time and time again, before he died. I was ten. He always told me, 'A good pair of boots is the best friend you'll ever have, Jas.' Or... is it ''are'' the best friends? Well, whichever. He knew leather. Better than he knew women, or small boys, I guess."

"My mother died when I was seven." She offers this without him asking. The way she speaks, however, doesn't make it seem like she's ''only'' sharing because he did. "I thought I knew her, what she was like, why everyone who knew her seemed to either love her or hate her, but I don't think I really knew anything. Nothing at all really." She sets the squeezed out laundry into her basket and inches over to Jaspen, eyes large and apologetic. It's the easiest way to distract from subjects that are too serious, too real, for this lifestyle. If her basket lies unattended for a few hours and his boot is pushed away (by her) to be lonely in the grass for a while, who really cares? She's not as inept at sex now compared to the beginning and can even manage to listen to the women (and men) make bawdy jokes without flushing.

Sometime after Igen, things change, the beat of drums echo in the distance, and catching their meaning, Suireh suddenly goes still seated next to Haisha. The rest of the day and days thereafter, a tangible cloud of distraction unfocuses the young woman from the day to day tasks.

"I'm not sure we can ever truly know our parents," he says, in reply, though it's plainly not an attempt to draw anything more out, or prolong the conversation. She doesn't need to offer apology, not really; it's not like he's unwilling to offer distraction, or to hold her, afterwards; it's only comfort if she needs it. It's just... it's just Jaspen.

The drumbeats mean nothing to Haisha; nothing to anyone except Suireh, and it's not one of those things you ask about. Drums are harper business; drums are code. Traders and entertainers, they've got their own codes, and you just don't break them. You don't. But Jaspen, he keeps a watchful eye on her, not asking, not probing, and yet... perhaps, in a way, he already knows what the answer would be. Will be.

He doesn't ask, nor does he grieve. But.

It just is. One night, afterwards, she lies there, her head on his chest and arm slung over his torso, and says quietly, "I need to go back." It's not like she isn't aware he knows; it's been the pink herdbeast in the room for days now.

His, "I know," is tainted with the sigh he doesn't quite release; it's full of sorrow, but not regret. "I'd say 'don't leave me,' but..." Those dark eyes look down at her, solemnly. "I've probably always known you couldn't stay forever. You're going to be okay, Suri. When you're back. No... you're going to be ''magnificent''."

"You always thought too highly of me." Some pieces of her old life have returned already, in little mannerisms, and in this response. It's not Suri's gracious acceptance of his pride in her, but Suireh's dubiousness. The harper exhales, tightening the hold of her arm over his chest and kisses his neck in apology for her words. "Thank you." She could say more. She ''wants'' to say more. By morning, she's saying her goodbyes to everyone else and then walks in the direction of Igen Hold.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Negotiating For a Body

2014-12-04T06:45:35Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Suireh{{!}}Prinavi, Azaylia |what=Telgar's Weyrwoman visits High Reaches to discuss Iskiveth and, more importantly, Teris. |where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Wey..."

{{Log
|who=Suireh{{!}}Prinavi, Azaylia
|what=Telgar's Weyrwoman visits High Reaches to discuss Iskiveth and, more importantly, Teris.
|where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
|when=day 11, month 6, turn 36 of interval 10
|gamedate=2014.12.03
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=Teris,
|ooc=
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Viyareth's intrusion is subtle, first a flicker of lights on a dark horizon and then gently creeping in from the side into the Reachian senior queen's thoughts. << Good afternoon, >> is Telgar's polite greeting. << Prinavi would visit High Reaches and see your rider if she might have the time. >> One might suspect that this is a far more coached requested than the rider might be capable of given the mild twinges of exasperation causing the most peripheral lights to flicker in and out.

Dragon> A foreigner on the borders of her thoughts brings about a low rumble from Hraedhyth's drums, the subtle touch reminiscent of stealth. At Viyareth's greeting she's much more amiable, fire lit in warm welcome, << You and Yours are welcome. >> It could be she's made the decision herself, for it's only now that Azaylia's presence weighs in, << Mine waits in the council room. >> Chambers. Whichever.

Viyareth's coming is swift, almost as if she was poised mid-flight for the acceptance of her request and just betweening. When she emerges high above, there's a rumbled greeting for the watchrider on the Spires and an immediate downward path. Once Telgar's queen lands, the rider pauses, poised at the top to survey her surroundings, a long, leisurely glance taking in the various openings and the types of people going into them. It's the stairs, however, that lead up towards the Weyrleaders' cavern system that Prinavi strides up, once she's dismounted, pausing there to regain her bearings. Making a best guess at it ends up with her backing out of an empty junior goldrider's weyr and it's the third guess that has her approaching the council room.

There's a roar from Hraedhyth, a greeting, while she remains perched on a high ledge and the blue it belongs to. Viyareth has landed, and her rider has dismounted, but Prinavi doesn't immediately appear in the council room. It's a few minutes before Azaylia stands, caught halfway out of her chair when the Telgar Senior arrives, "Oh." She commits to standing, pushing back her chair to approach Prinavi, "High Reaches duties to Telgar, Weyrwoman." Motioning to a chair, she returns to her seat only if the other woman sits as well. "I can only guess as to the reason of your visit." Not that she intends to voice it.

"I got lost," says Prinavi breathlessly, doffing her gloves as her riding cap's already at hand. Her dark hair's braided and coiled about her head in two doughnut-like spirals at the nape and the sting of between's chill lingers in a ruddy mask on her cheeks. "I've never visited High Reaches before." But that's not why she's here, and catching glance of that motion to sit, the young woman opts to stand for a second longer in, not quite insolence, but at least careful regard of the situation, the room, the woman she speaks to. Dark eyes travel the length of Azaylia up and down before settling on her face, and a small cat-like smile curves before it flattens into solemnity. "Can you?" The gloves tap twice on her leg before she moves, really slinks, to the chair indicated and sits in the one next to it. "Should we exchange pleasantries first, Weyrwoman? Prinavi, rider of Viyareth who was clutched out of Iskiveth turns ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry." As if Prinavi's getting lost was her fault, and surely Azaylia can twist it to be. "One of those things-- been living here for so long I forget not everyone knows the ins and outs." It's obvious that the Reachian Weyrwoman is alert, bordering on tense, though that could just be nerves. She's still polite, and certainly genuine, whether it is to be believed or not. Azaylia couldn't have been far from the council chambers, but the unexpected nature of the visit is found in her sundress and the lack of prepared refreshments. They're likely on their way. There's a curl of her lips as Prinavi sits, an odd expression that is closer to curiosity than anything settling as she returns to her seat. "I thought I was, but... Azaylia, rider of Hraedhyth." She doesn't seem surprised at Viyareth's lineage, but there are only so many gold dragons on Pern. "I'm sorry this happened." To her dragon's dam, or at all.

"Frankly," Prinavi starts, her voice not bothering to lower in the tones of confiding. Instead, it's as frank as she starts out with. "Teris hasn't been an asset to Telgar in turns and this may have been a blessing in disguise." The tone and words are clinical, at odds with the youthful, pliably cuddly vision the physical manifestation the Telgar Weyrwoman makes. A long moment passes where the goldrider's eyes linger on the dress, and the smile suddenly floats back and ''this'', this Prinavi has the decency to aside in a lowered voice, "After all this is over, you'll have to tell me who your weaver is. I love that fabric."

Azaylia's startled by the words, by the blunt honesty of them-- or what she believes to be the truth. "That..." Yes, even after so long the Weyrwoman can be surprised when meeting with other leaders. And yet, "Is sad to hear." If not eerily familiar. Still, "Too much death. Too many ''golds'' going between." If Prinavi's goal is to keep her on her toes, mission accomplished. The compliment earns several blinks, and she smooths her hand over the thin, layered fabric. "O-oh. Thank you, I... I like to try different weavers. This is from Igen, actually." Wait. She gives a little shake of her head, "But, about Teris." Her hands fold in front of her, "I take it that means you don't want to see her, during your visit?"

Prinavi sits back, her gloves coming to be placed properly in her lap, draped across her riding cap. "But," lest Azaylia get too comfortable in the side note about clothes and the confession of Teris, "Whether she was addicted to fellis or not, or Impressed and birthed at High Reaches, she is ''our'' rider." She lets that statement hang in the air, succinct, for once in this conversation.

Addicted to fellis? Clearly news to Azaylia, her brows raising as she listens, though there is a knowing squint as it suddenly becomes clear. "You'd like her back at Telgar?" And if that's the case, "I have no objections. She was of your Weyr, after all."

"It's not a subject we care to bandy about in public." Prinavi says shortly. But in the next moment she's relenting and warmer, a free hand rising to rest on the table's edge. "I didn't learn of it until I became Weyrwoman and then J'sran let me in on the horrible little secret. Most of our riders are not aware. The ones who suspect well-," the young woman shrugs elegantly in spite of her riding leathers. "It is lucky it was not Iskiveth who rose after-," and her the Telgar Weyrwoman purses her lips and looks to Azaylia a long long long moment. "After the leadership vacuum left by Torani." Which is, apparently, another subject they don't care to ''bandy about in public''. "You won't mention this outside of this room, please?"

Azaylia is at a loss for words, not wanting to offend even as Prinavi has no qualms when it comes to Teris. "Yes," She finally decides, "It certainly sounds as though you and Viyareth were much better suited." Not just a compliment, but fact given what she knows now. The question for confidentiality comes just as she's becoming particularly pensive, thoughtful gaze lifting with surprise. "Oh! Of course not. You have my word." Though, "I'm... could that have been part of the reason? For Iskiveth being suddenly lost between?" It's still a mystery, after all.

Prinavi considers a spot on the table. Not a real spot, just a place her eyes latch onto. Her voice, this low alto begins slowly, as if words are being fed to her, or she has to think each one out word by word, "Telgar Weyr absolves High Reaches of ''any''," and on this word, she looks up to look at Azaylia, "Fault in this matter. Nor do we desire your Weyr to investigate further. It was an accident. We accept it as such. But Teris-," the young woman's face softens, her lower lip catching in between her teeth as she exhales out the corners of her mouth. "I remember when I Impressed and her dragon was the clutch dam. She was a striking, difficult to understand, woman. She deserves dignity and the accounts out of High Reaches are alarming. That the healers are denying her this last act. No matter what my personal opinion of her is, she deserves this respect. I thank you for being gracious in allowing our rider back."

For all of it, perhaps Azaylia is ''too'' genuine. More surprise, and then her expression fades into soft consideration as Prinavi speaks, until her face is set in regret. "Thank you, Prinavi. I am still very sorry you lost a queen." Her brows become heavy and she gives a curt nod, sudden and stern. "I'm glad to. I apologize for not offering sooner. The healers here... They don't understand. Or perhaps they can't. But you ''will'' have her back." Even if those same healers intend to make it a difficult task, it'll be seen through.

"You have your hands full with figuring out if one of your riders was involved in a queen's death. Tragedy seems to plague High Reaches, one way or another," says the goldrider who took over a Weyrwomanship with tenuous legality. "As I have your permission, I will visit the infirmary and speak with the healers about relinquishing her care to our Weyr. Thank you, Azaylia." Sincerity suddenly dissolves the formality of Prinavi's poise and once again she's glancing wistfully at the fabric. "I was needing an excuse to go visit with Nimae and get the gossip from her directly. Igen, right?" The curvaceous young woman stands and tucks her riding gloves and hooks her riding cap along her belt. "It was a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm only just starting to get my bearings. Clear skies to you and your Weyr."

Azaylia lets out a soft hum, more of a displeased grind when Prinavi first speaks, but she doesn't argue. "It does. But, tragic or not, it's still home." She gives a soft nod, standing as Prinavi does, manners not forgotten. "Igen, yes." It's not wistful, but there might be a hint of longing for the Telgar Weyrwoman's ability to visit freely. "You're welcome to visit as you like, Prinavi. If the healers are difficult, please let me know." She gathers up her things, looking to return to her work and the spot she's picked for herself ''outside''. "Clear skies."
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=The Death of Teris Logs
}}

Suireh

2014-11-24T00:14:00Z

Satiet:

{{HrwProfile
|Has rank=
|picture=Suireh.jpg
|name=Suireh
|position=Journeyman, Master Vesik's song bird
|dragon=
|craft=Harper
|birthplace=High Reaches Weyr
|mother=[[Satiet]], dead
|father=[[R'hin]], Monaco bronzerider
|siblings=[[Riahla]], Monaco bluerider
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Georgie Henley
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==
A steadiness prevails about this slight teenager, from the arch of slender brows over large, steadfast gray eyes and the way her thin lips are set in an ever-so neutral expression near constantly. Standing just shy of five feet, Suireh is a lithe girl, her thin carriage carried in what the kind might call regal, while the uncharitable might discern notes of an insolent arrogance, a certain better-than-you demeanor. Her glossy dark hair is generally kept in two plaits that fall down her back to her waist. Her attire is a predominately white shift dress with pale blue trim, over which she wears a fur vest that cuts just above her waist. On her feet are a pair of thin suede slippers dyed harper blue.

== WYSK ==
* Daughter of former Weyrleader pair, Satiet and R'hin at High reaches. Twin to Riahla. Niece of Anvori and Leova. Was born at the Weyr and moved away just prior to her mother's death to live with her maternal grandmother until her uncle brought them back to the Weyr.

* Apprenticed at Harper Hall at twelve, but then quit after a year due to homesickness.

* Stood for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch and then the subsequent Monaco clutch and failed to Impress. It was no secret she was 'groomed' for gold at Monaco.

* Returned to Harper Hall with recommendations from Rorkes, her vocal instructor, and begged her way back in. Then tested well enough into automatic senior apprenticeship.

* Was promoted to Journeyman, a month shy of turning 19. Tapped initially as composition and vocalization Master Berme's special student.

* Ended up switching to being Masterharper Vesik's errand girl. There's a lot of gossip as to how she came into her position.

* Went off the grid shortly after her grandfather passed away and between the months 2 and 8 of turn 36, was seen in various small venues (small holds, cotholds, trading camps) from Tillek to Igen.

== History ==

== Relationships ==
=== Harper Life ===
* [[Vesik]] - As you wish.
* Erablen - Making sense of the chaos of my mind.

=== Friends (what?) ===
* [[K'zin]] - Inasmuch as I have friends you might be one. It's comfortable talking to you.

=== My Past ===
* [[Anvori]] - In retrospect, I'm sorry I shut you out of my life after I grew up.
* [[R'hin]] - I can't be disappointed by you anymore because I find you predictable.
* [[Riahla]] - The other side of the coin I am. I envy your carefree attitude and... your dragon. Even if I don't approve of the color of it. Or your life choices. Or... I miss you.
* [[Leova]] - The mother I never had. The mother I wish I had.
* [[Satiet]] - My idol. But... I don't even know if I know who you were.

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/ST}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Crafters]]
[[Category:Harpers]]
[[Category:Monaco_Weyr]]

Logs:A Brief Visit

2014-11-23T23:55:00Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Leova, Suireh |what=Suireh visits Leova in the middle of her off the gridness. |where=Leova's weyr |when=d13 m4 t36 Interval 10 |gamedate=2014.11.16 |quote= |weathe..."

{{Log
|who=Leova, Suireh
|what=Suireh visits Leova in the middle of her off the gridness.
|where=Leova's weyr
|when=d13 m4 t36 Interval 10
|gamedate=2014.11.16
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon suireh.jpg, Icon leova.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=It is a spring night, 23:15 of day 5, month 4, turn 36 of Interval 10.

A blue dragon alights on Vrianth's ledge, dropping off her passenger, and then disappears back up and between. Suireh stands, a duffle slung over her shoulders and a sharp breath drawn in to suck in that still-cold Reachian spring air.

A shadow falls. A white plume flames out, Vrianth landing atop her stone, staring.

Pale eyes level on the green dragon, considering her possession of this hole in the wall and a small smile creeps about the girl's mouth. Staring game with a dragon.

Vrianth the whirling-eyed, Vrianth the sleek-winged, this Vrianth steals her tail about her paws and out and away again. It's a lithe tail, long, flicking its tip.

Suireh only has her hair, but to move on her part would be to lose. So she doesn't move; only stares.

Vrianth has her teeth to flash, pleased. Vrianth has her wings to splash out against the wind, silken silver between dark spars.

Unwavering, the lithe girl just looks with eyes that are sunk a little too deep with shadows just a smidgeon too dark. The smile that was turns into a might have been, and then a was it ever.

That makes it no game, no good one. Footsteps behind them precede her aunt's, ''her'' rider's, "The cider's warm for you."

"In a bit." She's going to win this time, she will.

"''Suireh''..." curves up at the end. She must remember what happened last time.

That vibrant croon, that's not triumph but rather more vexed: her rider interfered. Her rider meets ''her'' niece with an open arm, a hug that's closer than it sometimes is, a, "Welcome ''back''."

"No," is the girl's terse answer, for mid-twenties that she is, ''here'' she's always somehow ''just a girl''. "Just a visit, to see you."

''Still.'' "He's not here yet," but Leova is, ushering her into the weyr's warmth, where light reflects off the shutters' polished metal and steam rises from the promised cider.

Suireh walks in, her duffle tossed along the wall just inside where curved walls become more square. "Thank you," she says simply, "It's nice to feel warm again."

"Hungry?" Leova asks that, too.

A beat skips. Then, "Yes," comes in a voice that carries a touch of shame.

"Got something for that." If she can't fix everything for Suireh, she can fix that, rustling in the cupboard while Vrianth rustles into her weyr.

"Leova?" Somewhere between admitting her hunger and the greenrider rustling off, arms snake around the older woman's waist and Suireh ''hugs'' tight.

Oh, and Leova hugs her back, 'course she does: lets herself ''be'' hugged, makes herself remember to let her go. When Suireh wants, not before.

Suireh's eyes close and she sighs, sinking into that hug. "Leova? Don't tell anyone I was here."

"Anvori," Leova begins. Is he 'anyone'?

Suireh's response of "What's there to eat?" is answer enough to that. Hug moment is over.

Food moment comes next, though not as though not interrupted at all. There are so many things that can't be done, and then there is this.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Bedside Propositions

2014-11-22T05:48:37Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Sasha, Satiet |what= |where= |when=day 26, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.31 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons-new= |icons= |desc= |log=One..."

{{Log
|who=Sasha, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 26, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.31
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=
|log=One of the taller candidates goes about the room, shutting the windows on the glow lanterns around the caverns, leaving only a few here and there cracked open to spill enough light for visibility in the barracks. Once the boy passes by Satiet's cot located in the center of the girl's side, her hand lifts to wave him on, smiling briefly, "Still finishing up some reading." The hides balanced against her knees, a letter, are indicated and the boy moves on wordlessly. The flat end of a stylus keeps her place as she reads each line carefully. Nearby, in one of the cots that flanks her own, Joilin snores.

Sasha is flat on his stomach, a long hairy arm over the side, laying like a ship wrecked on the shore. Lately he seems to grow more restless, with a stutter in his monumental snore.

Scattered along the purple coverlet on her cot are bits and pieces of larger hide that's been ripped into smaller sheets. One of them, obviously a discarded reply from the numerous scratches on the sheet, is crumpled up thoughtfully in Satiet's hand, and aimed at Joilin's head. "Shush you," the alto hisses softly, and then narrows in on another snorer a little across the ways. The blonde candidate shifts uneasily, brushing the hide off her head with still slumbering gestures and rolls onto her otherside. The letter is put aside, and Satiet steps out of her cot to reach down and pick up the crumpled ball again. *plop* Not an arc, but with more a whizzing flick it heads towards Sasha's nose. Placidly, she perches herself on the side of her bed.

One of the taller candidates goes about the room, shutting the windows on the glow lanterns around the caverns, leaving only a few here and there cracked open to spill enough light for visibility in the barracks. Once the boy passes by Satiet's cot located in the center of the girl's side, her hand lifts to wave him on, smiling briefly, "Still finishing up some reading." The hides balanced against her knees, a letter, are indicated and the boy moves on wordlessly. The flat end of a stylus keeps her place as she reads each line carefully. Nearby, in one of the cots that flanks her own, Joilin snores.

Sasha is flat on his stomach, a long hairy arm over the side, laying like a ship wrecked on the shore. Lately he seems to grow more restless, with a stutter in his monumental snore.

Scattered along the purple coverlet on her cot are bits and pieces of larger hide that's been ripped into smaller sheets. One of them, obviously a discarded reply from the numerous scratches on the sheet, is crumpled up thoughtfully in Satiet's hand, and aimed at Joilin's head. "Shush you," the alto hisses softly, and then narrows in on another snorer a little across the ways. The blonde candidate shifts uneasily, brushing the hide off her head with still slumbering gestures and rolls onto her otherside. The letter is put aside, and Satiet steps out of her cot to reach down and pick up the crumpled ball again. *plop* Not an arc, but with more a whizzing flick it heads towards Sasha's nose. Placidly, she perches herself on the side of her bed.

His response comes with sleep's delay, a grumble, and he burrows his face into his cot. Moments later he comes drowsily awake, blinking his eyes, his whole face squinted up.

Her hair's been pulled back out of her face, no call to be caught in anyone's grasp this time around, and in the long corridor of cots, only a few people are awake here and there, indulging in the same activity that Satiet was until moments prior. To her press she goes, withdrawing thin strips of linens and a bit of overly flowery ointment and to Sasha's cot she heads, tossing both onto the other candidate's cot, uncaring if the objects actually hit him instead of fall onto the free parts of his bedding. "It'll hurt less if you hit with your hands bound up." Is she being nice? "Someone as pansy as you, probably needs the extra protection."

With that same grimace of a look, he takes the ointment, bringing it to a nostril. "Oh, how thoughtful," he sneers, "have you brought me some cream for my face? Now I will be as pretty as the other ladies." He squints an eye then, giving her a horrid look. "I don't need your junk." He flips it away.

"Suit yourself," she returns quickly, the speed of her reply indicating she discerned his answer even before attempting to be thoughtful. "I was just thinking of you, you know. Since no one else really cares about you anyway and your knuckles'll be too raw to go punch straw men again tomorrow." Satiet speaks with the tone of one all too familiar with bloodied knuckles, though her own hands, the ones that lay flat against her legs are mark free. With the knowledge people are around, she lifts her chin arrogantly, deigning to assess Sasha aloud, "You're a horrid -little- man."

Sasha gives her what they call a Bitran salute. It involves one finger. His face slumps back down onto the pillow again. But then it lifts, fractionally, with his chin dug in. "We'll never be friends," he warns her. "Stop trying."

"Who said anything about friends?" Satiet intones slyly, her gaze dark in the shadows of the glow-less room. She leaves the discarded 'gifts' on the floor for whoever has cleanup duty and invites herself to perch on the edge of Sasha's cot. "You don't look like you really want to be here, so why pretend?"

"If I didn't," he counters, "why would I?" His head drops on the pillow, and he shuts his eye. His long braid has been pulled out for the night, and his choppy dark hair is everywhere. "I don't waste my time for no reason. I'll wash dishes and shovel shite well enough, if it'll get me my dragon."

"It seems to be a waste of your time all these rules." Interested eyes peek up from their various cots, and Satiet gives them all the all too well-known 'he's being so difficult' look, with an indulgent smile overtly for the other candidate. Once appeased that nothing big will happen tonight, and other eyes drift back to their various pre-bedtime tasks, the blue eyes narrow onto the back of Sasha's head. It's only a second before she's reaching out to attempt to tweak his hair sharply.

An irritated growl buzzes his pillow, and his hand slaps the back of his head, like some insect has just bit him. "What do you want from me?"

"Teach me to fight, and I'll stop irritating you," Satiet replies tartly, wrestling her fingers free from under his smack. "Tomorrow, stables."

"Girls can't fight," he tells her, twisting back a look over his shoulder. His broken nose flares its nostrils unattractively. "Easier to teach shite not to stink."

"Teach me, unless you're just afraid of getting in trouble and sent home." Cold and calculating, the alto brooks no argument, at least so she thinks. At odds with her less than lady-like request, Satiet folds her hands in her lap primly, and regards the other candidate in a quietly intense study. "I bet you, by the time the hatching comes I'll be able to flatten you into the ground."

Sasha
A fight-picking young man mean as a bull. He's tall for his age, wide in the shoulders and chest, but baby fat still clings stubbornly to his physique. Around seventeen, he's seen many turns of hard chores. His hands are gnarled from work, callused, and the right's burned. He has a thick rope of dark hair in a braid, and dark eyes to match. His features are broad, chapped from the cold, with a blunt broken nose and a densely freckled complexion. He looks like a brick dressed in fur and tough cloth, with massive boots.

"Do you want me clinging to your arm constantly until either you Impress and I don't, or I Impress and you don't, or until we both don't Impress and get sent home? I don't think so." A distasteful wrinkle of her nose and a smirking curl of her lip is shot towards the prone candidate. "I have reasons, none of your business. And I doubt you're that strong." Dubious gaze flicks over the burly candidate's arms. "Tch. Maybe asking you is stupid of me, since you obviously can't hurt a fly." The rustle of fabric against fabric, the sounds of a robe being held tighter around her frame are heard as she moves way. "I'll ask M'rek. He doesn't seem afraid of much of anything including," she pauses, the smirk heard in her words rather than seen, "Shitey pansy rules. Don't sleep too deeply."

"Stop hurting my feelings.. I'll cry." Muffled sniffling emanates from beneath his pillow. Then, curtly, he says, "I don't do anything for free." Adding, "And I doubt you have anything of interest to me."

"Think on it. I'm sure your pig-like brain will think of something quick enough," are her last words, only a little triumphant, before closing the shades on the lantern above her cot. The hides and pieces of hide littering her bed are cleaned up in one easy sweep and dumped into her press before she slips under her covers.

"'I'm mure mmph mmph-mike mmph mill mink mmph mmmph-ming mmick mm-nough,'" he mocks her voice in a prissy, mumbly falsetto, into the sheet of his cot. He sends her a nasty glance from beneath his pillow, then, just one eye showing, like a rotten wher peering out of the gloom of its den. Then he pulls the pillow down, and goes back to bed.
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|Categories=General Logs
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Logs:Stupid Is As Stupid Does

2014-11-22T05:41:30Z

{{Log
|who=Sasha, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 26, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.31
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=
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|desc=
|log=Itchy hay. The smell of horses. Sasha is here, dirty, with a sheen of sweat over his pale northern skin. Bored, surly, he drives punch after punch into tightly baled straw. Some long-faced runners look on, hanging their heads over the sides of their stalls; their long-lashed eyes look serene. Others lounge by, chewing fodder from their trays, or lay on the ground for a time.

Divvied into stalls, Satiet's dark hair bobbles into view above one long wooden wall, a soft soothing sound clucking at one of the runner's in the stalls. And slowly, she drifts into full view, coming around the bend of wood with fingers trailing against the deep mahogany hide of this stall's occupant. Her long fingers twitch against the runner's muzzle, a sharp look cast towards the punching and grunting noise from the would-be boxer. "So this is where you spend your free time?" Smiling sardonically, she continues, pulling a bit of hay from her hair to play with, "Should've figured. Hay for pigs."

"Can't drink," he grunts, "can't rut, can't leave." Thud, thud, thud. "Nothing else better to do." His eyes do not budge from the bale of hay, disinterested in her presence. His punches leave off a moment, as he passes rough fingers over the knuckles of his right hand.

"Who says you can't drink?" Pale eyes drift to the bale of hay, Satiet giving the runner one last gentle rub between the eyes and then wandering over to perch herself out of the way, ankles crossed, arms folded over her chest. "Just don't get drunk, and I've a mind you can handle your liquor unlike some people. Amarie, I bet you give her a shot of whiskey and down she goes." An unspoken challege brightens her eyes, "And you can do whatever you want as long as you don't get caught. Not getting caught? Is the key," she murmurs, "As one particular bronzerider's told me time and time again. There's just the dishwench in the kitchens for you."

The name brings no reaction nor recognition from him; he hasn't bothered to get to know any of the candidates. Their stories, fates, hopes, and dreams mean nothing to him. Only solemn Dharien seems to be known to him, so far, the quiet boy who tries to keep him from causing trouble. It's said they were both searched by a dragon in the middle of a fight. "Pimping girls out for me, how sweet," he replies, "and here I thought you were a senseless cow. I'm not going to waste my candidacy on some trollop. I can get what I need." He waggles his fingers at her. His knuckles are reddened and a little cut from raggedy straw.

The slender stalk of hay is slipped into the corner of her mouth, the female candidate chewing at the end idly. Satiet's expression remains set in its cross between fascinated by Sasha's indifference, and the minxy look of a cat in a game with a mouse. "You've a high opinion of yourself to think you can get a girl without some help. Kitchen girls don't do it for you then, I'm guessing?" The blue overcasts with a shadowed look, her reclined position against a stack of hay unwavering. "We're well-matched then. Senseless cow and rutting pig." A glance darts back, as if looking for some authority figure, before she turns a smirk marring her delicate features. "I've a rider bringing me some goods sometime this sevenday. You have anything to nip at?"

His eyes venture her way, then, after a few moments of soft stable sounds. Hay rustle. Hoof stomp. A few rumbly runner noises. They return to the hay bale, and his fists. "Trying to make friends with me, Moo?" he asks.

"No." Satiet replies flatly, arms disengaging to rub against the side of her pants. "No one -needs- a pig for a friend. But you're different from them," chin jerks towards the candidate barracks. "And drinking alone is never any fun. Neither's other enjoyments for that matter." A pointed look is shot towards the red knuckles. "You remind me of M'rek. Always looking to pick a fight, that drunken sot." But the last insult is said with a mired note of affection, or at the very least fondness for 'that drunken brawler.' "Pigs of a kind?"

His punching leaves off when the bale falls off its stack, bowed back out in the middle. He gives a short sharp snort. "Used to fight back at home," he says, rubbing sweat from his brow onto his upper arm. "In the tavern. Used to win, too." Fierce pride in that, as if it were some accomplishment for some young buck to topple drunken has-beens. In his world it is. "Til M'rek brought me here to work. He's my cousin. My father's people."

"You're ever so magnificent," Satiet mutters. "What is it with men and fights. You two.." when it comes up that the two are related, her pale eyes roll in exasperation. "Never out of trouble I bet, you." Using her upper body, she pulls herself off the haystack and comes to stand off directly at Sasha's side, close enough to be able to, if she wanted to, breath over his shoulder. Disdainfully, the bale of hay is given a squinted glare, "Anyone can hit drunks. Anyone can hit some hay. You're no good at fighting otherwise, are you?"

He's hauling the haybale back into position, bent slightly, with a hand down on it, as he hammers out the other side flat with his palm. To her he coolly conveys, "No, but you know Robinton and his gitar? I'm the Robinton of hitting women. Just once and they shut up. Why don't you shove off, whatever your name is."

No immediate response from him, like he doesn't care, has nothing to prove. He's still hammering the haybale back into shape, ignoring her-- until he's finished. Then of a sudden his hand whips back. Not to strike her but to try and grab some of that raven hair.

As she doesn't move, it's not difficult to grab ahold of a good chunk of hair. Still standing solid, nary a flinch on her features, the blue eyes instead mock the other candidate, followed soon by low-pitched, cruel laughter. "Didn't think so." Satiet's own hand comes up to try and place a hold on Sasha's wrist in order to pry him away, "Go back to hitting your hay men. There's nothing better for you than that."

"You don't want me to hit you," he tells her, in a low voice, giving a good, wrenching slow twist of her hair. "Trust me on this. I'm not stupid. Are you?" He lets her go with a shove. "Why don't you run along?"

"You're smarter than you look, pig." Satiet's own hand clenches reflexively, but other signs of violence are held at bay. The wince, only surfaces after her face has turned away, though through much control, she doesn't touch her scalp until she's ambled out of the stables. "It was a pleasure meeting you, again." The mocking laughter that trails from the exit is light, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Tags: *high reaches weyr, ^candidacy, sasha, satiet
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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
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Logs:Trouble?

2014-11-22T05:15:32Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Aislinn, Kassima, Lanisa, M'tri, Satiet, V'lano |what= |where= |when=day 26, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.31 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |i..."

{{Log
|who=Aislinn, Kassima, Lanisa, M'tri, Satiet, V'lano
|what=
|where=
|when=day 26, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.31
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 10:57 on day 26, month 9, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a autumn morning.

You head towards the western side of the bowl.
Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#880RJs)
Standing on the western side of the bowl, the high crownlike spires of the Seven Spindles on the north wall tower magestically above the roughly ovoid bowl floor. Near you, a large boulder stands, placed almost exactly in the center of the bowl. This side of the bowl is busy with the constant flow of residents and visitors around the entrance to the living cavern to the southwest and the lower caverns to the west. To the north, the large opening on the upper wall leading into the hatching grounds catches your eye. Directly below it, the ground entrance to the same area seems almost tiny. Northwest, the weyrs belonging to the junior queens of High Reaches are accessible from a short set of stairs and a path of carefully laid black marble leads from them to the entrance to the living cavern. To the south, a few ground weyrs remain unoccupied, in case any visiting or injured dragons need them.
The morning is mostly hidden between scattered grey clouds. It is raining heavily, the water coming down in torrents. It is completely still, no winds blow and the fall air is pleasantly warm. The ground beneath your feet is wet from the last storm.
Views: Junior Queen Weyrs
Contents:
Daikoth
Lysseth
Voldrath(#13674JVae)
Obvious exits:
LIving Cavern Lower Caverns Hatching Grounds Ground Level Guest Weyrs Eastern Bowl Floor
Bowl Floor

"Charmed, I'm sure," the dark-haired girl in the trio of teenagers that makes their way across the bowl remarks. Dryly even. "You've heard then, that I'm supposed to give my regards to him, like.. well you know." Left unsaid, but insinuated in the uptilt of a brow, Satiet's chin lifts smugly. The blonde at her side blinks, shaking her head once the implication hones in and cautiously she voices, "You shouldn't say that kind of thing, you know, Sat. It's likely to come bite you in the arse later." Joilin is leveled a cool stare, fingers lifting to dismiss the other two girls, "Come get me when you're done mucking. I wouldn't want to keep you from your chores." Leaving her companions at the entrance to the galleries, the raven-haired girl takes the steps up with prim aloofness.

You walk through the tunnel, emerging in an enormous cavern. You walk up a short flight of steps into the galleries.
In the Galleries of the High Reaches Weyr Hatching Grounds(#510RJas$)

Kassima takes this confirmation that the eggs have not previously been seen as a cue to point towards the incredible, incomparable ice egg and inform the bluerider, "See that one? 'Tis going t'Hatch a giant orange chicken. Which Volath will then eat. I for one plan t'be here t'see it, though 'twould be anyway as a matter of course--between it just being a Hatching and their being Volath's progeny. Have you any thoughts or marks on what egg might Hatch which color?" Ah-hah. Her true reason for egg-gawking with her Wingmate, revealed. "Probably a good notion, that. Although, y'know, I'm nay sure I can guess how Volath would take being insulted by Daikoth."

HRW-Bowl> In the bowl, to the west, Speak of the devil. Rubbing weary eyes, V'lano trods on past Lysseth with a mumbled "G'morning pretty girl" as if it's utterly normal to see her there; he even raises a hand as he passes her forequarters to wave, completely unawares as to whether she's even got an eye open. Trod trod trod, muttering softly about whiny dragons. Not the green, presumably. No, one out there on those sands he's headed for.

V'lano strolls up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.
V'lano has arrived.

At the top step, Satiet pauses, her thoughtful gaze dwelling on the eggs and the two parents on the sands. She tips her head forward, chin grazing her collar in a mocking show of respect towards the two dragons and their progeny, before curiosity slants her gaze towards an all too familiar voice. She looks almost too delighted at seeing the Telgari greenrider, if the brightening of her eyes is any indication - or she's had one too many already this early in the day. "My," she begins congenially, "I didn't expect visitors so close to the noon meal. Doesn't your Weyr miss you on occasion, ma'am?" Boot heels clack against the ground as the slight girl makes her way towards Kassima and M'tri. A nod is afforded the bluerider, along with a thinly voiced greeting, "Morning, sir. Reaches duties to your Weyr."

On the sands, A single greenish eye cracks open on the bronze head which lies outstretched on a weary, limp neck, chin rutted in the sand. Whirling slowly, the narrow gaze follows the arrival of its dark-haired rider, the head rocking by tiny increments slightly to the side to allow the following of V'lano's arrival from the top of the stairs toward the rail. His waterfall-laden wings raise and fall with the expansion of a sigh within his great ribcage, resulting in a low whuff through his nostrils. When the upblown sand cloud settles, the egg-sire seems asleep once more, eyes shut tight.

M'tri
When standing at his full height, M'tri is hardly menacing; he only raises to about five-feet-eight, give or take a bit. His build is slender and fluid, his movements infinately more suitable of a serpent, even if nothing else is. His body is lean muscle, rather than the frequent mountainous bulges of a man of broader frame. His skin, while not extremely pale, has only a hint of brown to it, not sunlight induced but natural. Chartruese eyes of the lightest tone contrast elegantly. His hair is thick and dark brown nearly to the point of being black, and has a natural curl that is neither ungenerous nor kinky. It's simply messy despite any of his attempts to make it look like he's not just rolled out of bed.

His face has acquired a lean look to it, with a slender nose and an everlasting sly grin. This grin, which always reaches his eyes, gives him semblance to a sleight-of-hand artist. His smile is an all-together different thing. When he smiles, he does not look conniving, but bright and trustworthy.

Black breeches are slung on his waist, held up by a slim black belt with a shiny brass buckle - as if Daikoth would allow anything less than shiny. A well-fitting tunic of the same, stain-concealing brown clothes his upper torso, tucked into his breeches, marginally wrinkled. The entire outfit is worn and hand-me-down by appearance, with reinforced seams and plenty of patches here and there where the colors make slight variations to the rest of the clothing. To complete his outfit is a pair of solid and sturdy black boots which rise to mid-calf and halt where he's tucked in his breeches and removed an overlay to cover the laces. Looped over his right shoulder is the two-toned knot of a Telgar rider. Threaded through this knot is a thread of sober, dark blue; a blue that is rippled through with lighter tones of cerulean--a perfect depiction of his lifemate's coloration. The patch on the opposing shoulder of the brown riding jacket proudly proclaims his position in Thunderbolt.

M'tri is 18 Turns, 8 months, and 6 days.

Kassima
Kassima is a woman gifted magnanimously by genetics: one would likely guess her to be younger than her actual age thanks in part to high cheekbones and a brow lines dare not touch, and metabolism and height have both dealt a good hand in her slender 5'10" build. Her fine-boned features are framed by a black river braided and confined, allowed free only in the wayward forelock; there, it threatens to dangle into canted eyes the color of emeralds in shadow. A shrewd glint lightens these even when mirth does not, and the well-shaped brows above lend eloquence through their mobility.

Kassi seems to be in excellent health and condition. She is strong and fit, with enough tan to suggest time spent in warm climes recently; shadows may sometimes ring her eyes, but they shine for all of that. She currently wears a shimmering black blouse and black slacks that have become careworn in their Turns-long service. Two pouches and a long dagger hang from her ornamented belt; the glints of metal at her fingers (+detail available) suggest that she likes jewelry.

On one shoulder of her exquisitely crafted riding jacket is the black and white knot of a Telgar Wingleader, with a thin cord of red to honor her Benden Weyr origins and a strand of grey-green to show the color of her lifemate, Lysseth. The patch on the other shoulder identifies her as the leader of Thunderbolt Wing.

V'lano
Tousled, sometimes fly-away curls frame a sun-drenched face made rough over the bridge of the nose and above generous brows from much time out of doors. Dark eyes framed by lashes too long for a young man's face express every little thing that comes into his head, saving him the trouble of much talking. His nose is a little narrow, but the even, smooth lips beneath it are not unpleasing, and a frame of smoothly curled hairs in the brackets of his mouth sets it off to advantage. His hands are slender and as expressive as his eyes, softened by much time in dragon-hide oil. He appears to be somewhere in his early twenties.

A tunic of undyed linen flows loose over his sinewy arms and even chest. Its pale fabric makes a swath down his torso, framed on either side by a cardigan sweater left open, woven in a dark sienna yarn. Trousers of coarser fabric tuck neatly into boots of harder leather, both likely chosen for ease of motion and cleaning. A fleece-lined wingrider's jacket graced with the badge of Telgar's Icewind wing provides footing for the simple rider's knot run through with a bronze thread.

M'tri's face splits in a sly grin, the kind that says he knew the entire time it was going to come to this. "Kassi, you know that one day, someone like me - maybe it will be me - is going to beat you in this betting thing, and I am going to take every shiny thing you own and line my weyr with it so that Daikoth is finally satisfied, and you will be poor in an empty weyr, without any pretty jewelry, and only one bummish outfit. And Lysseth's unconditional love will be all that keeps you floating." Pause. "That one's going to be a brown," he says with a point at the Off to Oz egg. Satiet's approach earns her a thorough looking-over and a wrinkled nose. "Telgar's duties. But I am no sir, trust me."

Lanisa meanders up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.
Lanisa has arrived.

The words of a little green bird outside have Kassi turning towards the Galleries entrance in good time to see that Satiet has arrived, though it's doubtful--rather doubtful--that this is the person she was looking to see. Nevertheless, her greeting is cordial enough: "Candidate. G'day. The Weyr longs and pines for m'presence, 'tis true, but I am evil and cruel and live t'leave it in a constant state of heartbreak. This is Satiet, M'tri. One of the Candidates." Addressing the bluerider means she's distracted further from her look-about by the need to assure him, "You shall never take all m'shiny things! You may dream of it; may quest for it; may scheme and plot and plan for it, but you shall never be successful, and you shall *never* have m'fine gowns all for yourself. You'd stretch the lines terribly." Now she's free to follow the direction of Volath's attentions, and call a greeting accompanied by a warm, broad smile: "Vel--I hear you've been flattering m'dragon again."

"She'll just have to get more jewelry then. - And it's the only way to handle her, Kassima." This is the murry observation of a cotton-headed bronzerider, fists to his eyes several steps down the aisle. Boots accustomed to the depth and length of the Reachian gallery stairs, V'lano just keeps moving despite the fact that, when he pulls his hands away from his face and knocks crumbles of sleep-salt from his knuckles off against his trousers, his eyes look as though he's no more able to see than they were when squeezed shut. "Duties from Reaches and Telgar and all their queens, 'specially the one out there, Candidate, riders - " He's repeating what's necessary, with sleepy embellishments, without even seeing identities other than the presumed Kassima until he's almost to the Thunderbolt wingleader's side. There, the appearance of the pale-eyed young man he shared barracks with twice suddenly registers on his face, and there's an abrupt straightening of shoulders and widening of eyes, the effort to look alert. "M'tri," he blurts, obviously. "...Welcome!"

"Your knot says otherwise. Sir." Already set apart from her reply by a breath, additional emphasis marks the title as somehow special. Or slyly cruel, given the speaker, it's more likely the latter than the first. "Satiet," she repeats, studying M'tri intently before allowing a flattering smile to curve her lips. "Telgar must have something sweet in the waters to produce such good looking riders," a look over her shoulder includes the arriving V'lano into this eclectic grouping. It's only after she settles herself into a seat, adjusting the line of her trousers in a more comfortable position, that she remarks upon Kassima's words, "You must leave hearts strewn in your wake. It's a pi.." but once the bronzerider comes closer, her words trail off to accord him a sardonic look of greeting. "Morning, sir."

"Does the weyr really need more shiny things? I mean, think of all the extra dusting and polishing that would go with adding Kassi's collection to the lot." There's clearly a teasing glint to the bluerider's gaze as Lani makes her way up the steps and moves towards the other Telgarians. She pauses to look over the clutch and grins, "I like all the grey ones, Vel." She would. The candidate only gains a long look before a slight smirk of as grin slides across Lanisa's face, "You don't have a bronze, he's not interested."

M'tri laughs at V'lano, tipping off a nod and a, "H'lo, bud. How's the pickin's here? Do all the candidates have sense like this one? How 'bout the rest of the bronzers? Will they be hard to win over?" Satiet earns herself a scrutinizing look, but a grin nonetheless as he decides, "Well, if you want to call me sir, you can. But I'll tell you, it's not the waters. This right here is good breeding." He wags a finger at her in mock scolding, which quickly dissolves into a wave to Lani. "You don't have a bronze either."

Kassima only laughs, and sets her as-yet-unopened wineskin on her lap so as to leave her hand free for attempting to catch one of the bronzerider's, and, should she do so, tug in an invitation for him to sit beside her should he like. "An expert in m'dragon already, is it? Has she been giving you trouble, that she needs t'be handled? Come sit with us. We're *visiting*." Ah, stating the obvious. Such a pastime. "You look tired," is observed in more of a murmur, a thread of concern running through it. The concept of more jewelry gets a grin though; of course it does--and then she agrees to Satiet, deadpan, "If'n you think they're stunning, you should only see M'tri's husband. Hey, and speaking thereof! Sort of. Lani! Join us too?"

"She does, I promise." This is directed to Satiet; V'lano looks heartbroken. Assuming that your definition of 'heartbroken' is muzzily sleep-deprived beneath an exterior of faint, good-host shock. Shock doubled by Lanisa's arrival, though a moment later something visibly clicks in his head and his shoulders round a little in relaxation. "Lani - sa," he hesitantly greets the newest addition to the Telgari Invasion Commission. "Do you really? I suppose you've heard, then - Josilina loathes them. She hasn't been spotted out here with paints yet, but she blames Volath - me - for them all." The bronzer turns incrementally toward the sands to give the dragons there, and their suspicious offspring, a somewhat rueful look. Aside, for the Thunderbolt riders, he notes, "The candidates, I don't know. Strict rules here." That's a warning, and it's shared with Satiet herself through a dark flicker of a gaze. "And I'd watch careful which bronzers you choose, too - maybe Kassima could suggest better guesses than I." He manages a weak wink for the wingleader while trodding toward her spot, seeking a place to put himself down.

Aislinn strides up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.
Aislinn has arrived.

Kassima's observation of the bronzerider sharpens the set of Satiet's eyes, pale blue eyes glittering like ice chips as she turns to regard V'lano again. But it's only momentary, the sudden relief brought by a gracious smile that widens until it threatens to spill over with it's affability for the sire's rider. "The weyrwoman wanted me to convey my regards to you, sir. Lhiannonth's that is." As if there were any confusion as to whether the subject of the comment was Matheny or Josilina. Tilting her head towards M'tri, overt flirtation on her slender features, she muses aloud, but not to the bluerider, nay. It's to Kassi the words are sent towards, "It's not just the men that are attractive, ma'am." Lanisa's arrival causes just one twitch of her nose, uncertainty splayed along her creased forehead at the newly arriving bluerider's last comment.

"I thought I was the exception to all the rules, Trii? Or does this mean I'm being cast aside as your mistress for the lack? Mayhap I'll just have t'barrow Tear, would that do? I'm not sure Tisi will approve, but Da doesn't need Tear all the time, eh?" Riiight. "Oh aye. Trii's husband is something to behold." Lanisa backs Kassi up without pause, "Don't mind if I do. Duties and all that." She sketches a slight flourish of a bow V'lano's way, followed by a teasing grin, "She -still- on about grey eggs? Is she blaming it on Telgar bronzes in general yet, or not made that connection?" For Satiet, Lani just gives a smile, much like the feline that got in the cream.

Aislinn sneaks in, and immediately shifts her gaze over to the eggs. With a broad grin, she leans forward a bit to see any that she might have missed before. The sound of other voices catches her attention momentarily, and automatically she says 'duties' to the riders that she's not familiar with. To Satiet, the girl waves with a warm smile. "Hey there!" Ais ignores the little she had heard upon entering, and focuses once more on the eggs.

M'tri shrugs slowly, agreeing, "I think the grey are nice. At least they're not pink," he adds with a grin that has too much wattage to be genuine. "Or orange. If they're Volath's fault, I thank him, kindly." There's a frown to replace the fake grin as he regards V'lano's warning, then, "Maybe I'll stick with the bronzes at Telgar. I could never betray you all..." There's some time to ponder over that, for sure. "My husband is positively striking. Woman's hearts simply stop at the sight of the pair of us...it's amazing." Yet nothing is said for the looks sent between Satiet and Lani; instead, he leans back and makes himself more comfortable in his seat, stretching his legs in front of him.

Kassima grins again for this portrayal of heartbreak, because she must, and says only on the subject of Candidates, "Rules which are interpreted in interesting fashion by certain individuals, I'm sure." Rather droll, that. "As far as bronzeriders go, M'tri's already recruited M'rek into the harem; that's nigh the extent of 'Reaches bronzeriders I know, these days. Most of m'visiting-time here has been spent with one in particular." There's room to her other side, which she gestures towards in welcome a moment before slanting Satiet a look that's purely, simply amused. "Mmm-hmm. I'm certain the Telgar women thank you for that. You haven't met Lanisa, have you? M'tri's mistress and the one who tends t'chop off any hands that get too close t'his--well, but 'twill let her speak for herself: Lani, this is Candidate Satiet." The new arrival gets a friendly nod of greeting too, and a smile to go with it. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens. Ah, Trii, you surely don't whistle the quaint regional melody there. I've heard that women just throw themselves at your husband, every chance they get, and collapse in little swoony puddles."

"Uh, thank you. Her regards? I... should come here more," the bronzerider admits with an audible pang of guilt in his low voice, flicking an equally guilty glance toward those eggs again. The conversation draws him back, however, and he settles into the spot made for him. "We don't discuss Telgar bronzes," V'lano leans forward to inform Lanisa with a droll smirk. "I'm afraid the name of any Telgar bronze except mine has been completely and temporarily dislodged from my memory. I swear," he frets affectedly, raising fingertips to his temple to denote being touched in the head, "I'm worse than a dragon these days." He raises a hand in greeting to the newer candidate arrival, then turns a faint frown on Kassima. "M'rek, M'tri's harem. Does M'tri have any idea whom else's as well?" He dares a look at the bluerider in question, obvious concern for the man he shared candidacy with on his sunned face.

"Yes, I'm a candidate, as everyone likes pointing out, as if the white strand on my shoulder wasn't enough indication." Satiet replies snidely, another once over given Lanisa before a toss of her hair indicates the conclusion she's drawn of the female bluerider. The seat near Kassima is given another glance, blue gaze darting towards Lanisa, allowing the other bluerider time to find a seat closer to the greenrider. Instead, she stretches back against the railing, a flicker of boredom caught in her eyes and then abruptly turns to observe the eggs. "The plain white one, like the snow that dusts the seven spindles. A bronze." Showing that she was listening all too well earlier in the conversation, an incautious look tossed Lysseth's rider. From her position, she then slips into the seat next to V'lano, hand drifting to brush invisible dust from his shoulder, "I'd a favor to ask you, sir. But perhaps this isn't the right moment to speak of such things, and.." her blue gaze briefly clouds as she glances at the gold on the sands, "I'd be afraid to interrupt you in your evening -- sleep." But a small smile fashions for the man, followed by a fluid rise to her feet. "But I best be off for now. I hope you enjoy your stay at the Reaches, sir, ma'ams." Aislinn's arrival is given a quick grin, before the girl ambles out with a jaunty whistle on her lips.

"Nothing like a good grey." Lanisa says as she slides into a seat, "I was never much good at rules. Or maybe I was too good at them, eh?" She considers a moment and nods, "M'rek's really the only Reaches bronzerider I know as well, and seeing as how he's in the harem already." She dips a shoulder, adding on with the almost mention of what she guards, "I'm not half so good with a knife as his husband though. But working on it." She giggles then, for V'lano's comment, "I'm not surprised with that. Probably safer that way. Sorry we didn't get buy sooner though. It is a handsome clutch." At the new greeting, Lanisa gives Aislinn a nod of her own just before Satiet is given an amused grin, "Nice to meet you, I'm sure."

You walk down a short flight of steps and head out through the entrance to the bowl.

From the sands> In the galleries, Aislinn steps a closer to the group, and waves back at V'lano, slightly bowing afterwards. She leans against the railing, and once more smiles at Satiet as she passes. Ais considers being polite, and introduces herself out of the blue. "Sorry to interrupt anything. I'm Aislinn, candidate here at Reaches. It's nice to see you all here." She puts on a crooked smile, and observes the riders with a careful eye...

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima snorts in open and unrepentant amusement and aims a light nudge of her elbow towards V'lano's ribs, probably in response to his claims of brain-softening. "Oh, as *if'n*. Who else's?" Black brows dart upwards; she shares a glance between bronzerider and bluerider. "You think M'tri would particularly object to the lady brownrider?" Ah, but now it's her eyes' turn to darken, though she keeps her expression carefully controlled, willfully pleasant, until Satiet has departed, at which point she murmurs, "I daresay that's going t'be an interesting favor. And I daresay that that one's itching t'have a formal complaint lodged about her by an out-Weyr personage if'n she doesn't treat visitors with more care." It's Lanisa her eyes flick to as she says this. "But never be minding. You like the grey eggs particularly, Lani? Oh, oh, you're nay interrupting. Kassima," she says to Aislinn, indicating herself. "Green Lysseth's rider, riding for Telgar. Pleasure t'make your acquaintance."

From the sands> In the galleries, M'tri seconds, "Little swoony puddles indeed!They're more like a lake, when they've all finished thier swoony puddling.And then, gallantly, always he throws down his jacket for my sake, so I cancross said lake." Insert a completely smitten sigh here, and a couple dreamy,starry-eyed bats of the lashes at nothing in particular. Satiet's bet,however, draws him back out of his acting for the sake of watching herclosely, almost warily, sitting forward and steepling his fingers before hisface, his elbows on his knees as he watches the Candidate go. "M'rek *is* theonly Reaches rider in my harem. Where else is he?" the bluerider inquires ofV'lano, searching that concern with classic playfulness, a fleeting shadow ofconcern in his own eyes, likely brought about by V'lano's.

From the sands> In the galleries, "Wait," V'lano says, brows furrowing; he stands abruptly, as if he'd follow Satiet's departure, but something suspiciously dark shadows his eyes, turning them from loam to jet. Wearily, he sinks back into his seat, angling for space a little closer to the greenrider's side. He does cheer a little at Lanisa's flattery, of course. "I thought so, but - well. I'm not even supposed to mention Josilina back at home, so she says, though I have - a little bit. Haven't seen a hair or hide of -him,- though." He skates a glance toward Kassima, then M'tri, looking to see if they catch the identity of that emphasized pronoun, and for clarity he notes, "The other Telgari bronze." As if there are only two. He absently waves Aislinn closer, returning her introduction with his own: "V'lano, rider to the great lump down there. The bronze one." He jerks his head vaguely sandsward and tacks on, "Telgar's duties," although that part's perhaps becoming slightly repetitive. Although having welcomed someone new into the conversation, he lowers his voice for Kassima and M'tri to note: "-Lady-, Kassi? Was that the one we saw at the Lounge? Because were that she, maybe so. All I know," and this is a little louder, fit for public consumption as he straightens from his conspiratorial lean, "is every time -I- see him, it's either at a flight or in trouble. The former's been better so far." Warning completed, the bronzerider falls silent.

From the sands> In the galleries, Aislinn beams at Kassima and V'lano, shifting it over to the others as well. "Pleasure to meet you, Kassima ma'am. And pleasure as well to meet you, V'lano sir. Even though we haven't rightfully met, it's neat to see you hear as well!" Her eyes move over to M'tri and Lanisa, that last comment being directed towards them. With a jump Ais remembers that she never finished her chores. "Erm...I'm really sorry to go right now, but I have to finish something." A final wave, and she heads out.

From the sands> In the galleries, Aislinn walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl.

From the sands> In the galleries, "Lady brownrider?" Lani asks, then raises another question, "She always like that then?" She adds a nod, "Aye, that sort of foggy looking one is nice." She grins again to V'lano, after watching the exchange between him and Trii, "Da would be amused I think. If he knew that." If she had a farther greeting to Aislinn, it turns to a simple wave as she departs.

From the sands> In the galleries, The combination of V'lano's whispers and the second Candidate's departure leaves M'tri blinking stupidly at the sands. It's not a good look for him. So, he upholds it, echoing Lani's, "Lady brownrider? Why do I get the feeling I don't want to know her better?"

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima watches the standing, the sitting, and the stander-sitter's expression with increasingly open disturbance, and upon V'lano's relocation extends an arm to slip around his waist, offering a tentative half-hug. "There are some favors she has nay right t'be asking," said quietly. Then it's back to the conversational tone. "--J'len? I haven't seen much of him either, of late. Probably t'be expected since I don't spend quite so much time at home. 'Tisn't that Lady, nay, nor the... nay-lady with the boots, I promise you that. He mentioned once t'me that he has a brownrider paramour here, is all. He's nay a bad man by any means." Still, she mulls for a moment. "He does get into trouble, though," she adds at last. "The trouble isn't always of a... benign sort. Bitran trouble. She certes always seems it, Lani," said of Satiet, before she waves after Aislinn with a grin and a wryly amused, "Wonder if'n I could convince that one nay t'be ma'aming me? Nice Candidate crop, though. And Trii, you *do* flatter your husband so. I'm sure he appreciates it ever so much, and will likely swoon himself, once he hears of it."

From the sands> In the galleries, The bronzerider slinks into Kassima's embrace, wedging his elbow out from between them to return an arm curled around her to return the favor - though the flow of comforting seems primarily to benefit V'lano. Lowly, he murmurs to her, "Don't worry. She's ... whatever she is, but I've no reason to believe she's seeking anything I can't do. It was that she's spoken to the weyrwoman that - well." More, perhaps, that she brought tidings from Josilina than that there was an exchange at all, but the dark-eyed Telgari shrugs off the concern after a long, calming breath. Followed by a low giggle. "No, not J'len," he grins, but does not clarify who. A stretching of neck helps him point out an egg or two himself: "I am rather fond of the one she's all but buried, and of the streaky one with the orange."

From the sands> In the galleries, Lanisa gives a light shrug, "How much trouble can she cause anyway, eh? If she doesn't want to be sent home for rule breaking or some such. Unless she's from here of course." She sends a glance towards Trii and then just listens to bits of the rest, "Ahh. If he's that much trouble, then it's no wonder Trii wanted him for the harem." The eggs get another look then, "Can't see the buried one too well. And where is the...Ahh, I see it now."

From the sands> In the galleries, M'tri chuckles, watching green and bronzerider sidelong and the eggs moreso. "How do you know that one's going to hatch a giant orange chicken, Kassi?" he asks as a brief subject change. "I like that one. The one with the yellow at the bottom. And because I like it, it shall be blue, Kassi."

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima nestles herself against V'lano's side, tilting her head briefly so that it rests on his shoulder; if she has any shame about behaving so in front of her wife, she certainly doesn't show it. "The phrase 'spawn of a wher' comes t'mind," she answers with a moment's low and rueful humor. "She might have said that more t'bother you than aught. But are things all right?" Her brows take their second jump of the afternoon as she adds, "Nay J'len? Well, now I'm intrigued. Methinks she's from elsewhere, Lani, but as far as trouble goes--" She hesitates, then settles for a moment's shrug. "Mayhaps you're right. Could also be for the liquor that Trii wanted him. You've sampled a flask, so y'know what I mean--why, Trii, because I'm omniscient, hadn't you realized? I'm actually *nay* sure about the orange part. That," she freely confesses, "is but a theory. The chicken however is only too obvious. Will you tell Vel that Volath shouldn't eat his chicken-son? Because I don't think I'm getting through--and that one? That's a green."

From the sands> In the galleries, "That one - right." V'lano points a little more to help out with the identification of the streaky one, then groans, eyes rolling. "The chicken," he moans ruefully. "Not the chicken. Kassima, I've told him and told him, but he's maintaining there can be no chicken child of his, and that we're all ridiculous, and if a giant chicken hatches out there it's because some giant chicken came and laid an egg among theirs. So he's entitled to snack on it." This is all in good fun, however put-upon and weary-seeming the bronzerider makes out. He gives the greenrider a squeeze and turns his head to peck the top of her jet-braided head, then unrustles himself in preparation to get up. "I'm just starting to be awake enough to realize I need to eat. Excuse me a bit - M'tri, Lanisa, good to see you! You have to come more often, or at least when the shells crack. To settle your bets if aught else." A merry grin, for that part.

From the sands> In the galleries, "Well, the liquor would certainly have been a draw... So which was it Trii? A drink from the flask? Or the trouble potential?" Lani asks with a grin for the other bluerider. Then looking out over the eggs, "A giant orange chicken. Well I'm sure Volath would know, hmm?" She glances up then to nod, "Good to see you too. And I'll do that, come back for one or the other."

From the sands> In the galleries, M'tri,shaking his head, chuckles at V'lano's complaint. "You know, that dragon of yours is smart. I don't think he'd spawn chicken either. And if I saw an orange chicken, I'd eat it too." He shakes his head, relaxing once more and adding for Kassima, "I don't think you're right." As V'lano rises, he earns a lazily executed salute in replacement of any sort of exertion to accompany the bronzerider's departure. "Aye, I'll come at least to settle my bets. It was good to see you, V'lano." To Lani: "I did it because I can't turn down trouble." Sigh.

From the sands> In the galleries, "Well... he might have a point, at that, or we could be back t'Lhiannonth's tempestuous affair with poultry," Kassima has to allow, after all due thought. Which is to say, not much. "In that case, is there any chance he might save Lysseth a drumstick?" She's smiling as she tightens her embrace in turn, lifting her head to try and bestow a kiss on his cheek before he can make his escape. "See you later, mayhaps?" she offers. "And you just *know* that Trii's dying t'do me out of weyr and home on the gambling. You heard him: he's after all m'jewelry and every shiny thing, and even the Gather gowns, which probably should disturb me. Or disturb Lani. One of those." Her eyes sparkle with far too much humor when turned on the bluerider pair. "Personally, I still think it might've been M'rek's bald head he was drawn to. Care t'place marks on the matter, M'tri?" Pause. "The matter of that egg, I mean. Nay the matter on what drew you t'M'rek. You've unfair inside knowledge there."

From the sands> In the galleries, "Oh, I'm sure he would." V'lano emphasizes his certainty of his beast's understanding of his shelled offsprings' identities with a soft, disbelieving snort - but there's a fond grin around the sound. He crooks his neck to accept Kassima's kiss, the curve of his mouth softening at the affection, then finishes stooping out of the seat into a stretching stand, hands at the small of his back. "Well, you'll have trouble in scores if that's your pick," he points out, though the dark concern's drained out of the words, leaving them just a jibe for M'tri's apparent taste in bronzeriders. -This- bronzerider finishes his stretching and turns around to tell Kassima, "Of course. You know where I am, and if you don't, I'm sure someone does. And he'd try to save her a morsel - but mind you, Lhiannonth might have a taste for chicken after all these days out there in the heat herself." He winks, then heads up the steps and out to the bowl after a quick wave.
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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
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Logs:Sly Insinuations

2014-11-22T05:13:13Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Josilina, Satiet |what= |where= |when=day 21, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.30 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg, |ico..."

{{Log
|who=Josilina, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 21, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.30
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 17:46 on day 21, month 9, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a autumn afternoon.

Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr
The kitchens of High Reaches Weyr are contemporary, spare and simple in design, free of clutter. The sleek surfaces are a hallmark of the current Pernese style - polished marble and granite, metalwork, and woods. The background colors of the kitchen are light and neutral, allowing for bold tone accessories to take center stage. The lighting and entryway opening treatments are low-profile and minimalist. The hearths have been fitted with modern equipment and simple, sleek metalwork to add an up-to-date touch to the heavily used areas.

The polished granite counters are long and wide, allowing for ample work space. The woodwork is lightly stained, bringing out the natural hues in the grain. A simple cording, in the same bold color as the accessories, borders each cabinet door, accenting the room. Two large islands break up the kitchen into work areas: baking center, butchery, vegetable and side center, and the serving organization center. The floor is tiled with large marble squares, each section carrying a different, yet complimentary color to direct the flow of traffic. The entryway into the Living Cavern has been expanded to fit two doors - in and out - each marked with its own identifying color that matches the tiles just inside the doors, to keep collisions from occurring. The cavern itself has been expanded to include breakfast nooks, where residents can sit to eat, while leaving the main kitchen free from tables and the traffic that accompanies a busy Weyr.
Obvious exits:
LIving Cavern Lower Caverns

Josilina comes through the hides covering the doorway from the lower caverns.
Josilina has arrived.

Josilina pokes her head in the kitchen, glancing around before stepping into the room. She has a small saucepan in one hand and inside are some cooking utensils in varying states of cleanliness. "Anyone know where these things go? ...I mean the pan. It's clean."

It's the lull before the frenetic pace of post-dinner cleanup, and one candidate is enjoying a quiet meal at one of the breakfast nooks. On kitchen duty it seems again, a blood-stained apron has been folded along the bench to the side, and it's only by virtue of facing the entrance way, and being in a quieter area, that she notes Josilina's entrance. Recognition is quick, indicated by an arced brow that slides in askance to the pan. "It'll have to be cleaned again. The utensils in it are dirty. Over there, the second tub of suds." A beat later, Satiet adds a half-hearted attempt at a title, "Ma'am."

"Right." Josilina looks over towards the tub, pointing, "That one?" even as she goes over. "Thanks. You're... shards. I'm sorry, I know we've met, but I'm awful with names. Mine's Josilina, by the way." She lets the pan slide under the cover of the suds, wiping her hands needlessly against her skirt. "Having a nice break?" She asks with a cheerful smile. Her hands move to her wrists, as if to push up sleeves that aren't there, before she reaches for a sponge and picks up the spatula she just dropped under the water.

"Ma'am." It's cordial, distant, but only for a moment as Satiet sets the fork down and allows an overly sweet smile on her face. "We've met, at the lake once, I think. You were.. babbling." But it's a kind assessment, or at least the semblance of kind, marred by a quick flicker of lashes in a blue study of the woman. But there's a pause and then a frown pulls at her lip corners, the girl sliding off the edge of the bench to step towards the weyrwoman in protest. "You shouldn't be doing that, that's my job. Dishwench that I am. Not as much break as, waiting. For people to finish eating so I can wash the dishes and get out of here."

Satiet(#15762POce)
Satiet is slight and compact in build, with remnant baby fat rounding her ovular face. In her mid-teens, the awkwardness of her stance betrays youth, and even with the subtle signs of femininity appearing in a gentle mold here and there, it's for certain she'll never grow up to be well-endowed. Sun-streaked raven hair is cut fairly short framing her face in loose waves, the ends curling outward as they hit her shoulders in a messy tousle. In sharp contrast with her skin, as well as the dark set in her tanned complexion, her eyes are a vivid blue, though detached in focus with an underlying aloofness.

A thicker sweater has been acquired, the knitting pattern of Tillek and the shading of the soft homespun wool an ocean blue. The cables along the sweater adorn the body, while the sleeves are relatively simple. A pair of fitted black pants cover her legs down to where they're met by thick striped socks. Hand me down boots cover her feet, the scuffs along the edges and the thinness of the sole indicating their age. On her shoulder is the white loop of a candidate at High Reaches.

Josilina
Josilina is generally unremarkable in her build, of both average weight and height, standing at just short of five and a half feet. Kept long, her hair, when left loose, hits mid-back as a mass of copper curls that tend to frizz, particularly in damp weather. Her blue eyes are set beneath contrasting sienna 'brows and faded freckles sprinkle her face, falling particularly thick across the bridge of her nose and fading as they approach her rounded chin that tends to set so stubbornly. She looks to be somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties. (+detail available)
White and sleeveless, Josilina's button-down blouse is made for the warmer months. A few simple pleats down the front add decoration to the top but it is, in general, far outshone by her skirt. Bright and rainbow striped the skirt ends at her knees and hangs baggily around her legs, cinched in at the waist for a better fit. It sits a little awkwardly, but who can really notice, with all that color? She wears white sandals on her feet; a braided choker of blue, green and yellow ribbons at her throat and her hair is tied back in a 'tail by her red and white scarf.

"Josilina." The correction is said with a smile, but her tone is firm. "Ma'am is only for formal occassions, or if you can see gray in my hair." Josilina breaks into a grin at such an assessment, "Was I? I suppose I was. That's not unusual, ask anyone. But I still didn't catch your name." The candidate's step of protest prompts a wave of protest from the redhead, water droplets scattering with the movement. "Don't be silly. I don't mind washing a few dishes - and technically you're not a dishwench, you're a candidate. If your knot's any way to judge." She gives the knot on Satiet's shoulder a little nod.

"Satiet," the name is followed by an assertive lift of her chin. "No matter what Linnea says." A darkly humored smile appears in place of the uncertainty of what to do with this woman who's doing her job, and with a bare nod, she returns to the edge of her bench, bringing the plate up to chest level and scrapping the remnant vegetables together. "Well, a dishwench for the night at least. Tomorrow, I may actually get a rest day, or something more amusing. Being stuck in the kitchens for a few days is hardly my idea of contributing. Any halfwit could do th.." she falls silent and instead picks at the wilting spinach. "If anyone half as important as you walks in, we'll pretend I'm doing you a favor," she finally concludes with a half-smirk, half-grin.

"Nice to meet you then, Satiet. Properly, I mean, without me babbling." Josilina says with a crooked sort of smile. "And what then, would Linnea say your name is, hm?" She asks, 'brows lifting in amusement as she finishes with the spatula and pulls out a spoon. "A favor? What sort then? Just so the story's all clear, you know, if someone important comes in."

Discomforted, the dark-haired girl passes over the mention of Linnea's peevish nickname for her and continues on to latch with light-heartedness to the latter topic. "A favor, I'm allowing you to fulfill your burning desire to be youthful again by helping with candidate chores." A disarming smile brightens Satiet's sun-shaded features, almost reaching her eyes with its intent, before one last petal of wilted spinach is put into her mouth. "Cause, obviously, being young is just so wonderful, right?"

The favor's explaination prompts a laugh and Josilina grins. "Right, of course. So kind of you to do that, by the way. But I'll have you know," she points in Satiet's general direction with the sudsy handle of the spoon, "I'm not /that/ old." She returns to washing, adding, "Being young -is- wonderful. I mean, that's not why I'm washing dishes, but there's nothing wrong with being young. Or staying young even when you're not, you know?"

"You aren't." Satiet remarks neutrally, apparently not finding that deep well of flattery in her yet. Maybe she's still stuck in assessing the other woman, the current image melded with the babbling sort at the lake. "Did you really want your eggs painted?" The question, while for most may seem entirely out of nowhere, the girl stares levelly at the goldrider. The plate, now empty is brought over and sunk into another bin, those of dishes it seems, the hands remaining under the suds for a moment longer than necessary. "Fingers get cold," she explains and then pauses. "You're not that old I mean. I expected you to be older, but you're only a little bit younger than my mother." Loaded compliment much?

"Eggs?" Josilina is briefly thrown by the non sequitor. "Oh. Well, I mean, if I could." Josilina shrugs, setting the spoon aside and drawing a pair of tongs from the water. "It's not like Lhiannonth would -ever- let me. But you have to admit, some of them are sort of... bleak this time around. And gray." She rubs the sponge over the tongs' handle, blinking at the last. "Than your -mother-?" Is her initial, startled response before she hastily amends, "I mean. Thank you. ...I think." Good with tact, this one.

"My mother looks younger than she is." Satiet continues on blandly, as if happily unaware of the other woman's gaffe, or her own. "It's in the family, but I guess you look younger than you probably really are? I'd say.." a sidelong glance shifts to include Josilina in her periphery vision, "Late twenties, but I've heard Lhiannonth was clutched turns ago so.." a light shrug, and she continues with washing her hands before picking out a dish to begin rubbing at idly. "In any case, looking younger than you are is always a good thing. I really don't understand some of the girls in the barracks, putting on colors as if it were second skin and trying to look older." A surreptitiously sly look is cast the rider before she continues with her work with a thin veil of innocence. "Have you seen V'lano of late?"

Josilina looks pleased, at least, at that age guess, chin lifting a little. "I'm thirty-one, actually. About to turn thirty-two." A shrug follows, "I heard someone say once that you're only as old as you feel, and I like to believe that. But looks matter a bit, I know I don't feel ready to go gray or /look/ old or anything." The goldrider seems again surprised at Satiet's last and her glance at the candidate is mixed with mild curiosity. "Some. Around the sands and all. Why do you ask?"

"Riders don't age as quickly it seems. Though I can't figure out how that's even possible, I'd probably go a bit batty with another voice in my head. If," Satiet pauses significantly to rub out a spot on a plate and place it into an empty tub for clean dishes. "What I've heard is any indication of what it's really like." She fashions a quick smile for Josilina, vaguely angelic but blurry at some point along her cheeks where stain of pink coloring leads into overly frank eyes - the kind that's sometimes too good to be true. "I'd just wondered. He owes me a favor, and I've been on the look out, but haven't been able to catch him at the opportune moment it seems. Do you have any idea where he sleeps at night? I could leave him a note or some such."

"Oh, it's nothing like that." Josilina says, shaking her head. Her smile softens and becomes a little distant as she gives the tongs a last swipe with the sponge. "Not at all. I mean, yes, there's a voice but it's... well it'll only drive you batty if it's /trying/ to. It's hard to explain." She sets the tongs aside and pulls the saucepan out of the water, tilting it to empty it. "He stays in the guest weyr, I think." She answers, absent-mindedly, coming to alertness only after she's answered. "What sort of favor, if I can ask? And I can probably get a message to him, if you want."

Satiet mulls over the initial answer, working through the stacked dishes quickly, with only the most minimal of furtive glances towards the living caverns exit. Her looks are rewarded shortly by a flurry of candidates busing tables bringing in more tubs of plates and utensils, as well as larger serving platters. In the din, perhaps she hasn't heard Josilina's favor as the silence in regards to that subject draws out. "It sounds pleasant, I'm sure, having another voice in here." Two taps against the side of her head with sudsy fingers. It almost makes one wonder what she's in this candidacy for. And then a little while longer, after the candidates go through the swinging doors back for more loads, she shakes her head slightly, "It's nothing very big, nothing to trouble -you- with of course. Just something trivial. I don't require much, I've had more here at the Weyr than I've ever had back home."

"-Me- with." Josilina echoes, mimicing the candidate in tone. "For one, it's no trouble. For another, all you've got to say is no thank you - I was just offering to help out. I'm not above trivial things you know." She shifts to the left, making room for a harried looking candidate to dump some dishes her tub. "And it is pleasent. Even if it does sound sort of... odd."

A bit taken aback, if it's possible for her to even be startled, Satiet glances at the weyrwoman again, a slow curl upward at one corner of her dainty mouth. "I didn't think the concerns of a candidate would be very high on your list of things to worry over," she begins slowly, a slight change in her inflection adding some latent form of respect for her conversational partner. "But I'll be sure to give your regards later should I find him? After all, you did tell me where he sleeps at night, and.." she smiles, a sudden brilliance to her dark coloring, and a sense of amusement in her eyes. "Well, thank you. I'd like to hear more of how pleasant it is some other time, but.." she glances back at the caverns, "I believe work's about to pick up just now. Perhaps some other time?" Making a sweet-toned attempt at an open-invitation, she brushes suds off her forearm and back into the tub.

"Ah, but you're mistaken Satiet." Josilina wipes the pot clean and sets it aside, picking up a dishtowel. "The concerns of candidates are very high on my list. I was a coordinator, once. And I still tend to try and keep up - even more so when they're candidates for Lhia's eggs." Her eyes narrow just a touch but it's a brief change in expression before she smiles, shrugging. "If you like. Er. Just don't put anything weird in his weyr, okay? I'll get in trouble." A nod, "Yes, some other time." She agrees, putting the towel back. "I should get out of the way. Nice to meet you properly, Satiet." She says, giving the candidate a briefly curious look before slipping out.

"Good evening, ma'am," is her last response before pulling over one of the vast tubs of plates and beginning to work again. Satiet hums softly under her breath, a song from one of the more well-known harper plays of a cat and a mouse.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Wise Words, Little Change

2014-11-22T05:09:12Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Carianna, Sasha, Satiet |what= |where= |when=day 15, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.29 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons-new=Icon satiet.jp..."

{{Log
|who=Carianna, Sasha, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 15, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.29
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr
The kitchens of High Reaches Weyr are contemporary, spare and simple in design, free of clutter. The sleek surfaces are a hallmark of the current Pernese style - polished marble and granite, metalwork, and woods. The background colors of the kitchen are light and neutral, allowing for bold tone accessories to take center stage. The lighting and entryway opening treatments are low-profile and minimalist. The hearths have been fitted with modern equipment and simple, sleek metalwork to add an up-to-date touch to the heavily used areas.

The polished granite counters are long and wide, allowing for ample work space. The woodwork is lightly stained, bringing out the natural hues in the grain. A simple cording, in the same bold color as the accessories, borders each cabinet door, accenting the room. Two large islands break up the kitchen into work areas: baking center, butchery, vegetable and side center, and the serving organization center. The floor is tiled with large marble squares, each section carrying a different, yet complimentary color to direct the flow of traffic. The entryway into the Living Cavern has been expanded to fit two doors - in and out - each marked with its own identifying color that matches the tiles just inside the doors, to keep collisions from occurring. The cavern itself has been expanded to include breakfast nooks, where residents can sit to eat, while leaving the main kitchen free from tables and the traffic that accompanies a busy Weyr.
Obvious exits:
LIving Cavern Lower Caverns

Sasha comes through the hides covering the doorway from the lower caverns.
Sasha has arrived.

After lunch marks the busiest times for the kitchens as preparations go underway for the evening meal in one part of the large caverns, while the bustle of cleaning the various utensils and dishes in another. Rarely do these two sides collide, except when a slender girl is tapping her toes idly as she awaits for the cutting knives to be cleaned. Slanting the fair-haired candidate in question a dubious look, Satiet mutters disdainfully, "You can wash them faster than that, you know. If you're not a complete toady, you won't cut your hand or fingers off. How do you even manage to breathe without being afraid, Joilin?" Pink-clad arms cross over her chest, blue gaze quick to skip over the other candidate workers in the caverns.

Some of the others have left off, too, in distraction. Slow paces for staring eyes. Several are watching, some with curiosity, some with dread, and some with a little bit of hope, the following contest between man and beast. As of yet it stands at a tie: Sasha has brought his sneering face to the limit of a spit-dog's chain, and with only a hair's breadth between them, they hover by, with lips peeled equally from their gums.

A fight-picking young man mean as a bull. He's tall for his age, wide in the shoulders and chest, but baby fat still clings stubbornly to his physique. Around seventeen, he's seen many turns of hard chores. His hands are gnarled from work, callused, and the right's burned. He has a thick rope of dark hair in a braid, and dark eyes to match. His features are broad, chapped from the cold, with a blunt broken nose and a densely freckled complexion. He looks like a brick dressed in fur and tough cloth, with massive boots.

Satiet, in her study of the other candidates in the kitchens, is distracted for a longer moment by the scene between canine and bull-like man. In frustration, a booted toe kicks into the bucket of soaking dishes, and instead of waiting for the knives to complete her chore, she sidesteps towards one of the breakfast nooks, her leaned weight supported by elbows resting along the table's edge. In the background, several other people further from the hearths are cued towards the showdown and noise becomes more muted. An elderly cook, on his way to man the spit, gives the candidate there a questioning look, followed by a gruff assessment, "Either toss 'im up, roast 'im, and eat 'im, or quit your dwaddling. Both'd you'd win ugly contests hands down, so no point in lookin' atcher mirror image."

"Yes sir," says Sasha, his eyes unbudged from the dog. He's waiting for the slobbery animal to look away first. It does. With a smirk, the young knave goes back to his chores, shoving one of his compatriots while nobody important is looking, the sort of boneheaded scullions that a hard personality attracts. Sasha has been an unremitting pain in the arse. Most are hoping he gets gored on the sands. "This is stupid," he mutters, to nobody in particular. "What are we training to be, the dishwashers of Pern?"

Carianna comes through the hides covering the doorway from the lower caverns.
Carianna has arrived.
Carianna hums lightly to herself as she enters the kitchen.

The cook grunts and kicks the canine in the side with little thought, causing the poor beast to yelp and scoot to the sides. Mean is as mean does. "Didn't you know?" Satiet's light alto lifts up, brows tweaked upwards, intrigued. A slow amble brings her near the scallywag, a sharp smile on her lips. "The best dishwashers always Impress, or something equally mundane as that." One hand reaches out to rest against a counter top, her hip settling against the same edge. "You're a candidate," she surmises with a small smirk. "I've seen you in the barracks." Never mind seeing him in action and hearing what various gossips have to say. A hum from the lower caverns exit causes her to glance briefly there, affording Carianna a studied look and a nod.

Carianna
A small framed lady of about 30 Turns in age stands around 4'6 inches. Curls of gleaming strawberry kissed with strands of gold are worn pulled up then tucked neatly into a white baker's cap worn while she's working. Green jade studs dot her earlobes. Her jade green eyes are brilliant and deep, their color more dramatic than usual, flecked with drops of gold. Worn proudly on her neck is a small golden apple charm pendant that hugs the woman's throat. A tiny pinky ring of intertwining yellow and while gold cradles three gemstones of red, clear, and blue winds around her left finger. She is wearing a clean grey dress covered by a large cleanly pressed apron with deep pockets. On her feet are a pair of worn work slippers, black in color and also plain to look at, but clearly comfortable. On one ankle is a small golden chain with a tiny heart-shaped ruby that rides along the links.
Carrying:
Kizzmit
Dzzie

Carianna side steps Cook who seems to be in one of her moods yet she smiles warmly to the others she passes on her way to her work station. Moments pass as she shuffles through some hides then looks up again. "I take it your the kitchen aids for today? Hi, I'm Cari. Posted baker here at Reaches. Who might you two be?"

Sasha passes the girl an 'are you stupid' sort of look, and then he sighs a gusty sigh. "By Moreta's left nipple... this is a waste of time." His mouth tightens into a scowl that he then mutates into a smile, saying, as Carianna comes upon them, "I'm Sasha, from Crom. Good to meet you." He'd rather stick his head in the oven.

The corner of Satiet's lips curl up in a disdain that struggles to be kept down. In the end, she succeeds only by virtue of a velvety smile that curves the rest of her pretty mouth, along with a silkenly spoken reminder, "We've met, at the barbecue." It's not her fault that the end turn of the last word is a trifle petulant, as if anyone could forget her. A dark look is cast the other candidate, followed by a disagreeable snort. "You're a pig." And that's all within five minutes of conversation - savvy Sat.

Carianna's smile vanishes just as the hides she held fall to the surface of her work station. "Pardon me?" She asks Sasha, not wanting to believe her own ears. Then blinks when Satiet replies. "Sounds like a love match if ever I heard one." she adds softly to herself then shakes her head with growing laughter.

Without missing a beat, Sasha replies, "I don't know about that, she's not ready for piglets yet."

"No one is," the dark-haired girl retorts, hands sunk into the depths of her pants pockets. "At least your piglets, as if you'd even have the guts to try." Satiet tosses her head and instead focuses her attention on the baker, "Did you need anything, ma'am? I'm sure Sasha would love to assist your every need."

Carianna can't seem to stop laughing as her hand lifts quickly. "Oh no, don't drag me into this. I've a Weyrmate already and a piglet to boot." Then to Sasha she adds, "No disrespect intended but you may have better luck with someone closer to your own age."

Sasha only smiles, somewhat tightly, with his thoughts plain upon his face. He scrubs dishes like they killed his father.

A smirk plays on Satiet's lips, before it pulls into a lopsided sneer. "I meant with your work. He seems to loathe the dishes, and anything else would probably be above his porcine head to fathom, so perhaps you can put him to some more productive work. Minding your piglet. I've heard, for all their lack of manners, pigs are quite clean." A look slides towards Sasha, and she adds dryly, "Nominally." She's just very helpful all around, and though she's also on kitchen duty, a sharp pivot takes her back the short distance towards Joilin and the knife cleaning expedition. But not before she attempts to surreptitiously aim a boot-toed kick towards the male candidate's heel.

Carianna's lips twitch, her laughter now under control. "Ah, I see. Well since you both seem to have so much energy I suppose I could assign you both to carting in sacks of flour and crates of tubers from the storage rooms to here. Though the dishes will still have to be finished. Would that be to your liking? There's only about forty of each to transfer."

It must hurt, but he doesn't show a sign. It goes easily beneath the cover of his tight expression. "I'll do it," he says, leaving off, letting the soapy dishes slide back into mucky water. "You ladies don't want to be lifting anything heavy." The general look he gives the rest of the candidates hither and yon, regardless of gender, seems to include them in that miserable category. "I'll bring them up." Anything to get out of here.

"Excuse me?" Satiet's trek back towards her friend pauses at Carianna's request, and for a moment her expression darkens completely. Feigning ignorance of any pain she may have caused the other candidate, she affords him a look, surprise arcing one brow upward. "Sometimes pigs have charm too. Unintended, no doubt," she mutters under her breath, while publicly she fashions a smile for the baker, "It seems Sasha's got it under control. Did you want anything to drink, ma'am, while we watch him work? Tea? Brandy? Whiskey?"

"No thank you. I've many thinks to take care of before I dare entertain the thought of indulging." Cari replies then nods her thanks to Sasha, though her words were a mere threat not an order she doesn't insist that he not do the chore." "Besides, as I said before the dishes will still need doing. Please don't let me stop you from that."

No matter, unruffled by the decline of her efforts at hospitality, Satiet moves back towards Joilin, a tiny look of triumph in her pale eyes. "I'm not on dish duty. Though, it's a pity V'lano isn't here. He enjoys dicing vegetables and hacking away at slabs of meat." A brief scan is afforded the caverns, as if by looking intently at each person, the bronzerider will show up to rescue her from the mundanity of chores. "A fool for trusting he'd actually keep up his end of the bargain, fegh." Back near the blonde candidate, the toe tapping begins again, as one by one, very slowly Joilin goes through the load of knives needing to be cleaned. "Where are the tubers from?"

Carianna ohs lightly, "You're not? Then what chore are you assigned today Satiet? The tubers? I can only guess Tillek since they arrived with the last tithe wagon. Why do you ask?" Returning to her task of hidework, Cari glances down at her workstation and hmms once again sifting through the pile.

"Chopping." The piles of meat that sit on one of the various kitchen islands is given a dubious look. "Chopping the meat for the stew tonight or whatever night. But in the end it will be eaten." Satiet proclaims decisively, taking the first clean knife that's a likely candidate and approaching the large mass with little apprehension. "Bloodier than flopping fish. Or Moreta's nipples for that matter." Belated amusement, as if the emotion just finds the outlet to surface now that Sasha's gone, follows the man's exit towards the storage rooms. "So Tillek's tithes arrived? Did you see if there were any packages for people that weren't tithes?"

Carianna listens and observes the girl quietly for a moment then nods lightly. "Yes a few were taken and left in the common rooms. Ma and Pa sent a little something for Petrusa. Were you expecting something as well? If so that may be where it can be found." Then a pause follows before she asks slowly, "Satiet, is something bothering you? Something about Sasha perhaps?"

The sun-browned girl nods throughout the explanation of where the packages have gone and purses her lips, "My mother may have sent something, but I'm not sure. Do you know when they'll return to Tillek? Have they returned already? I've something to sen-" Satiet's girlish chatter stops and she looks to Carianna in askance, funny enough, almost a mirror expression of Sasha's own 'are you the dumbest person alive' look. But it's quickly displaced and followed by soothing laughter. "Sasha? He's just an arse, he.." a beat goes by, and a slow smile hints on her lips, "He's quite the troublemaker I've heard. Not seen anything mind, but he's not the sort that I've heard will make it to the end of candidacy." Keeping things deliberately vague, one eyebrow tilts upwards in a knowing fashion towards the journeywoman baker.

Carianna ohs with amusement. "What makes you think that?" She counters while setting the hides into three sorted piles now.

The large cleaver smacks into the hefty cut of beef, sawing movements occurring once she hits bone. Blood droplets splatter here and there and Satiet shrugs, absorbing herself into her chores with a gusto not usually seen by those in the drudgery aspects of candidacy. "The things I've heard would make my poor holdbred mother blush and closet herself for weeks. He's trouble." Her lips purse again and she regards Carianna, "I couldn't tell you, see. It'd be tattling, and no one -likes- a tunnelsnake like that." At the wash tubs, Joilin watches the conversation with interest and shares a smug smirk with the dark-haired candidate.

Carianna winces as she watches the meat being sawed at with the cleaver. Yet something about Satiet's words cause her more pain. "Why don't you put that knife down and come join me for a mug of tea Satiet." she invites. "I'd like to tell you a little story if I may."

Amusement lifts the girl's brows, and wiping down her blood-smeared hands she glances between chore and the baker, coming to a very slow decision. "If I don't finish the chopping before dinner, we won't be eating too well tonight. And I thought you didn't have the time to indulge," Satiet adds, a sudden sweet levity to her intonation. Joilin is given a quizzical look over her shoulder, before the girl's shoulder's straighten backward and she steps towards the baker. "But I've a few minutes to dwaddle, I suppose, before I should get back to chores. "What words of wisdom do you have to impart, ma'am?"

Carianna chuckles lightly. "True I've little time to indulge in alcolic drink but I think this my be important. You seem to have some notion on what qualifies a candidate to be impressionable. That worries me." Stepping away from her workstation Cari heads over to the hot plates to fetch a pot of brewing tea. "I'm not sure if my story could be classified as words of wisdom but I'll tell it none the less and let you decide."

A burst of laughter greets the baker, what little worry in her face disappearing at the first comment. Satiet reaches out a slender hand towards Carianna's, a little dirty from work, but free of blood at least, accompanied by a dimpled grin. "Ma'am, I was teasing him if you happened to catch my talk of dishwashers being the most Impressionable. I'm quite aware it's left to the luck of the sands and the dragons within those eggs." Still, it's hard to hide the smug turn of her lips. "But please, your story, I'm sure will enlighten me completely. I've had little time to ask on the exact mechanics of what'll happen on the Sands."

Carianna returns to the table still chuckling lightly. "Yes the story. Lets see where to begin. Oh I know, once there was a girl who was asked many times over to stand for a clutch of eggs. She was told by all that one day she would become a rider. Everyone swore to this, well that is everyone who knew the girl."

Satiet is silent, a dip of her head indicating that she's both listening and requesting for more. She concludes though aloud, "But she never impressed."

Carianna sets the tea pot down then heads away again to gather two mugs. These too are brought to the main table before she finally takes a seat. Her smile warms as she looks up to meet your eye. "No she doesn't but that's just a small detail to this story. The fact of the matter is that no matter who the person is or what people say about that person has an affect I believe." Cari offers to pour.

"You're wily with your storytelling, ma'am. Leading me to believe one thing and going in an entirely different direction." Satiet remarks, a lack of snottiness in her words. Her chin dips again, giving ascent to pour, fingers reaching out for the handle of the mug. "Continue then, please?" Behind her, Joilin watches the chatting with a little envy but continues to make delicate swipes at the knife blades, as if any moment the sharp edge will turn on its cleaner and make a deep cut.

"Perhaps though that wasn't my intent." Cari replies with a light laugh. "I guess the point I'm trying to get to is You cursed Sasha. I've seen it just as I see he cursed you. Now that in itself isn't anything to get worked up over but..." Cari reverts back to her story to better express herself. "This girl was linked with the golden egg on the sands. Everyone expected her to impress. Those words hurt her I suppose, for she shyed away from the egg. Shyed away from many of the people after a time." Then she looks up and smiles. "Don't let your words make another shy way from you Satiet, or make others shy away from you."

"I've enough friends, ma'am," Satiet begins cautiously, the hesitancy that's reflected in her eyes displaying an uncertainty that's uncommon of her. "My friends have no complaints and I'm quite fond of them, most of the time. But no one's always happy with their friends right?" It may be she's not understanding or deliberately misunderstanding, but her blue eyes stray towards Joilin and a few other girls in the crowd of working candidates. "How does insulting Sasha have anything to do with Impressing? And why was this girl linked to the golden egg or any egg for that matter? No one really knows do they?"

Carianna's smile continues as she explains. "The link was with mere words Satiet. Words that can hurt us from time to time. Words spoken lightly but can be taken deeper than any of us ever let on. Cursing one is hurtful even when done lightly. It can be taken deeper than anyone can imagine. It can be offered jokingly and on the surface be taken jokingly but, deep down it could end up hurting not just the person they are spoken to but you as well."

An 'Is this woman for real?' reaction mars Satiet's shapely brows, but she continues to nod, the smile on her lips gaining an insipid quality. "I understand, ma'am. Which is why I won't speak of the ills he's done." Her fingers clench reflexively at the apron around her waist, drying off the perspiration gathered there it seems, or assisting in maintaining a controlled expression on her face. "I understand quite well, though. Thank you, but I think I should return to the meat. It wouldn't do if there was nothing on the table for dinner tonight." Smiling pleasantly, she inclines her head towards the woman, making sure to take her mug of tea with her before departing. "I hope the rest of your work goes well today, ma'am."
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Storeroom Chats

2014-11-22T05:07:06Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Satiet, V'lano
|what=
|where=
|when=day 10, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.28
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Central Storerooms(#17755RJM)
Though certain of the Weyr's supplies are stored at the places where they are used, most are kept here, in the central storage complex. A series of caverns grouped around a central corridor, the complex is cut on the grand scale necessary to hold all the items a full and active Weyr needs.

You're currently in the main corridor, wide and tall enough to admit a laden wagon. The walls are lined with heavy wooden doors, their wide spacing evidence of the size of the rooms behind them. Each of the doors features a posted inventory and map of its room's contents, and there are small piles of returned items beside several, waiting until someone has the time to reshelve them properly. There is a set of hardwood shelves available on a space of wall between two of the doors where people can place items when they are not sure which storeroom they belong in. Scanning the door signs, you note cold stores, dry food stores, rooms for textiles and furnishings, the records room, and the supply closet.

To the south, the corridor opens out to the lower caverns.
V'lano is here with you.
(Places code and +views (see '+view information'!) are implemented here.)
Contents:
V'lano
Obvious exits:
Lower Caverns

"Ought to have one somewhere." The normally richly gamey tone of the Telgari bronzerider is muffled by the door of a cabinet whose posted contents includes scissors, specialty knives, awls - everything you might need for making large bits of leather into smaller ones - but apparently not whatever V'lano's looking for. He unbends, withdrawing his head from the cabinet with a wrinkling of nose and squinting of eyes suggesting an oncoming sneeze, then shoves the door into place with a soft, only slightly slammy thud. "You'd think they keep them sharp somehow," he mutters, scuffing to the next door for increasingly irritable searching.

"Likely to poke someone's eyes out if they're too sharp," comes a sweetly toned alto from around a corner, followed by the dark-skinned face that is Satiet. Under one arm is a small basket of various threads and a pincushion of needles. Blue eyes observe the bronzerider wandering towards the next set of cabinets, a firm set to her lips indicating a form of determination as she closes her own cabinet with a soft click, and makes her way down towards V'lano. She takes a casual stance before him, basket and free hand resting on her hips, "Making yourself productive? Better this than the kitchens, or have you not gone yet?"

The rider's upper lip twitches, tempted by a sneer. The shape is squelched and forced into a rubbery smile while the door he's just opened gets closed, the interior contents left in peace. "Been," he replies, and at first it seems that it might be all the reply he's going to give. He turns a quarter-revolution from the cabinets, crossing his arms over his chest to sway his center of gravity backward slightly. "I think they're dubious about me taking a proper shift, so I've offered to do whatever they need done outside of the kitchens in hopes they'll get to trust me not to knock a pot off the fire turning around. So I'm looking for a strap." If that last doesn't make sense, it's only because Satiet's not V'lano; he seems to feel that explains all, and presses his lips into a smile of forced patience, trying to push off his agitation with the so far strapless storeroom.

"A -leather- strap?" Satiet's gaze slides to the cabinets whose contents are notated as a wide range of sharp objects and then back to the bronzerider. "You're not very sharp yourself, are you. Try the cabinets near the entrance." The dry advice is given with a jerk of her chin upwards to indicate the front of the large caverns. "You're more likely to find a strap there, and.. why a strap?" Puzzlement darkens the girl's blue eyes, which have already flicked here and there to note V'lano's agitation. Adjustments to the basket at her hip secure it further there, so her free hand moves forward to place itself lightly against the bronzerider's forearm. "You shouldn't work yourself up into a frenzy like that, otherwise I'll feel bad for doing you a favor, sir." A thin smirk fashions on her lips, lips pressed together, and one corner curling upward, "You're likely to get grey hairs faster if you fret so much, and then how would you be the talk of the candidate barracks? Though, I've seen some grey-haired riders looking quite distinguished."

"Yes, leather - " Agitated, the bronzer's moving toward the cabinets in question, brushing past the candidate if need be on his way, before he catches on to the fact that she might not quite grasp the nature of the thing. One hand raises to a metal pull on a cabinet near the entry, but instead of tugging the door open the gold-tanned fingers just rest there while V'lano twists his torso around to squint back at the dark-haired girl. "A whetting strap," he defines in careful tones. "Better for fine knives - paring, coring, garnishing - than a stone." The right eyebrow crooks twitchfully, but the smile on his mouth is beginning to curve in an unforced manner, and there's a glimmer forming in his dark gaze. The hand drops from the cabinet-pull and finds a spot on his hip. "Given I couldn't name the half of you with your faces before me, how'm I 'the talk' of any such thing? You're too sharp for your own good." Pun intended.

"Good looking, attentive, aren't those the qualities that all girls want, and boys envy? That greenrider didn't seem like she could keep her eyes, or hands off of you. Sir." Satiet murmurs, lashes sweeping demurely. Feigning ignorance of being studied, she tosses the lengthening locks of her dark hair over a shoulder and resumes the task she'd set out to do earlier. Skipping past the two cabinets V'lano's already looked in, she moves with the grace of one at ease in her slight figure towards another set, and begins to distribute the various colored threads into slotted positions in a drawer. "You should find it there, I bet. I was looking for something for a friend earlier today. But," here, she's the one to pivot at the waist to flash a disarmingly charming smile towards the rider, "I've not the memory to keep useless information. It's over there in that general vicinity. Not, with the knives, like thinking people would suspect."

V'lano exhales a snort of dismissal, but his indifference is betrayed by a red hue creeping downward from the tops of his ears. He watches the skipping and placement of threads with blank intent, the forced-patience smile fading to leave a bemusedly crooked grin in its wake. "Huh. Figures," he chuckles, regarding the location of a strap nowhere near implements in need of sharpening, and turns toward the knob he'd held to open the door properly this time. "I'll remember. It's useful information to me. Ought to be to the kitchen, too. You'd think they'd have one on hand, but I suppose cooks don't think about keeping an edge on a blade, what with everything else." Voice muffled or echoing in various manners as he dips his head into the cabinet, then out of it and into another one, leaving doors open as he progresses along the shelves nearest the entrance, the rider babbles conversationally. "I'm not so sure about the envy part." There's silence after that, as a thought becomes speech with unexpected result.

Women, especially girls that are new to the intangible power that comes with the fairer sex, know when words have made their mark even if they're not looking, or dimmer lights give no leeway in discerning blushes. Ducking her head, a hint of the satisfied smile is fleetingly visible before her face disappears back to focus intently on her task. "The kitchen probably has one kicked underneath the tables and islands there. Thins get lost in large bustling places like that." Small shifts in steps take Satiet from one side of the drawers to the end, the final spool of thread placed neatly, and adjusted just so. Back across the length, her fingers dance over the top edges, positioning them in a perfectly straight line. Another sweep the opposite direction closes each of the drawers, after which she stations herself casually against the cabinets, facing V'lano. "Of course, envy, when you've caught the eye of so many of us poor holdgirls, and I'm sure more than a few of the weyr lasses." Abruptly, she moves forward, head tilting this way and that to look into the cabinets, "Why are you so intent on working in the kitchens anyway? You a kitchen worker, cook before Impressing?"

"No surprise. Every time I've been in there, I've felt lost in the bustle." V'lano leans deeper into the third cabinet in the row, stretching an arm into its depths. He mutters softly into the shadows, the precise words lost against the seemingly random contents. Finally he stretches back from the shelves, reaching across himself with the other hand to massage at the shoulder-joint that pulled taut to give him reach - but the hand withdrawn is gripped around the beaten wooden handle of a sharpening strap, the glossy leather doubled in his palm. He turns around with a grin of triumph - don't mind the dust clinging to the hairs of his arm, nor the smear of grime against his chin where his face pressed against the shelf above - to be confronted by Satiet's choice positioning and reply. He huffs an exhalation of exertion, then dares, "You're trying to pull a fast one on me." Nevertheless the grin of triumph remains long after he's rolled the strap up and tucked it under his arm so he can brush at his arm. "I was a butcher. Didn't work in kitchens. Keep guessing."

The dark-haired girl watches the bronzerider's determined search, a smile tugging on her lips. A hand reaches out to assist, grazing V'lano's pulled shoulder before dropping as he accomplishes his mission. "I wouldn't know the first thing about pulling a fast one, sir." In all innocence, Satiet meets the dare with softly spoken words of her own, coy but unremarkable otherwise. "I wouldn't, dare I venture, say I understand what you mean by pulling fast one." She keeps the tease in her words light and then moves to begin closing the various cabinets that were left open, causing her to drift away slowly from the Telgari rider. "Butcher, eh? In a Hold, I presume. You blush too sweetly to be Weyrbred much, from what I can tell. And a bevy of greenriders at your feet, I bet now, finding pleasure at the color of your ears like Lysseth's rider." Her movements still, an angelic expression softening her features, "Do you think yourself attractive, sir?"

There's another soft sigh of a snort at Satiet's demurral, but once she begins moving away the rider dips his head to attend to the strap, unlooping it to stretch between his hands so he can inspect its length. A few nicks along the edges earn concern from the wandering tip of one thumb, but by and large the much-used surface meets his apparent approval. "At Lemos - the minehold, not in the Lord's keeping. Though before that we were somewhere else. I was littler then." He speaks distractedly, in the semi-nostalgic tone of half-attended remembrance. Tugging at the wooden handle on the strap's upper end to test its braid to the leather, he steals a short glance up at the girl-candidate. "Hardly a bevy." A beat. "My looks haven't hurt me. Why do you ask?"

"So you -do- think you're good looking then?" Satiet considers the rider, gaze flitting over his features in quiet appraisal. "Don't you find that kind of thinking a little conceited of you? I mean, it'd be different if someone told you you were good looking, say, for instance, me, but to answer a question like that." One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug, and the look she levels V'lano is touched with concern that skirts along the edges of covert delight. "I suppose some girls are attracted to that kind of arrog.. self-confidence." Her lips finally settle into a slanted grin, the faint impression of a dimple visible near her right cheek, "Perhaps, I'm one of them."

V'lano's mouth parts, the smile fleeing its shape, but there's little chance for him to protest between Satiet's reply and Satiet's rant. As she goes on regarding his conceit, he presses his lips back together, making of them a thin, wry smirk; by the time she touches on 'like that,' there's a definite light in his eyes. The candidate, perhaps, is not the only one getting some enjoyment out of her well-laid trap. He even plays along a little, putting up the strap in one curled hand again and resting the other palm against one of the now-closed cabinet doors, turning a few degrees to off-center his weight casually against the wood. When his turn finally comes, he begins with the simple bit: "Are you?" But for his defense, he adds, "I did say they haven't hurt me. I could argue that a watchwher's looks don't hurt it; they serve a purpose. But you'll make of me a wher or a sailing-bird, whichever pleases you. Won't you?"

"Ah, but a lady should never answer that question. Kassima would be woefully hurt, I'm sure, if I confessed my devotion to your attractiveness, sir. Besides, your eyes do all the talking for me, in what they hope I'll answer with." Satiet replies, lips curved up sweetly, though the mention of the Telgari greenrider does darken the blue eyes with trace elements of clouded disdain. She places her weight against the final cabinet, now a good ways away from the bronzerider, and rests there. "You could have meant something completely innocuous, and looks, even bad ones, don't hurt anyone. But you knew what I meant, and I knew what you meant. Next time, sir, you should answer truthfully, instead of trying to be self-consciously polite in regards to your good looks." The distance between the pair is crossed, fingers crossing over her lips light, before the delicate touch reaches upward to place the tips of those fingers on V'lano's cheek, "Next time we meet, perhaps you'll be better equipped to answer that question, sir." Leaving the rider with one last smirk by way of departure, the slender girl pivots on her heels and makes her way out towards the lower caverns.

The dark-eyed rider's brows crook up rather quickly at this mention of Kassima; blame the context, since none of the previous made him react so. "I did -" Mean something innocuous, but she's moving toward him then. He dips his head just slightly as her fingertips make contact, perhaps instinctively providing an easier reach for the touch, but when Satiet's hand moves away a blush blooms in the place it's abandoned. His head jerks back up as she suggests altering his behavior, though, and her departure leaves him not pleased so much as pensive, a dark suspicion causing those upraised brows to sink. "Better polite than played," he mutters, but by now the words are for his own benefit, confirming for his own confidence his effort at the high road.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Storeroom Chats

2014-11-22T05:06:34Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Satiet, V'lano
|what=
|where=
|when=day 10, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.28
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=
|icons=Icon_satiet.jpg
|desc=
|log=Central Storerooms(#17755RJM)
Though certain of the Weyr's supplies are stored at the places where they are used, most are kept here, in the central storage complex. A series of caverns grouped around a central corridor, the complex is cut on the grand scale necessary to hold all the items a full and active Weyr needs.

You're currently in the main corridor, wide and tall enough to admit a laden wagon. The walls are lined with heavy wooden doors, their wide spacing evidence of the size of the rooms behind them. Each of the doors features a posted inventory and map of its room's contents, and there are small piles of returned items beside several, waiting until someone has the time to reshelve them properly. There is a set of hardwood shelves available on a space of wall between two of the doors where people can place items when they are not sure which storeroom they belong in. Scanning the door signs, you note cold stores, dry food stores, rooms for textiles and furnishings, the records room, and the supply closet.

To the south, the corridor opens out to the lower caverns.
V'lano is here with you.
(Places code and +views (see '+view information'!) are implemented here.)
Contents:
V'lano
Obvious exits:
Lower Caverns

"Ought to have one somewhere." The normally richly gamey tone of the Telgari bronzerider is muffled by the door of a cabinet whose posted contents includes scissors, specialty knives, awls - everything you might need for making large bits of leather into smaller ones - but apparently not whatever V'lano's looking for. He unbends, withdrawing his head from the cabinet with a wrinkling of nose and squinting of eyes suggesting an oncoming sneeze, then shoves the door into place with a soft, only slightly slammy thud. "You'd think they keep them sharp somehow," he mutters, scuffing to the next door for increasingly irritable searching.

"Likely to poke someone's eyes out if they're too sharp," comes a sweetly toned alto from around a corner, followed by the dark-skinned face that is Satiet. Under one arm is a small basket of various threads and a pincushion of needles. Blue eyes observe the bronzerider wandering towards the next set of cabinets, a firm set to her lips indicating a form of determination as she closes her own cabinet with a soft click, and makes her way down towards V'lano. She takes a casual stance before him, basket and free hand resting on her hips, "Making yourself productive? Better this than the kitchens, or have you not gone yet?"

The rider's upper lip twitches, tempted by a sneer. The shape is squelched and forced into a rubbery smile while the door he's just opened gets closed, the interior contents left in peace. "Been," he replies, and at first it seems that it might be all the reply he's going to give. He turns a quarter-revolution from the cabinets, crossing his arms over his chest to sway his center of gravity backward slightly. "I think they're dubious about me taking a proper shift, so I've offered to do whatever they need done outside of the kitchens in hopes they'll get to trust me not to knock a pot off the fire turning around. So I'm looking for a strap." If that last doesn't make sense, it's only because Satiet's not V'lano; he seems to feel that explains all, and presses his lips into a smile of forced patience, trying to push off his agitation with the so far strapless storeroom.

"A -leather- strap?" Satiet's gaze slides to the cabinets whose contents are notated as a wide range of sharp objects and then back to the bronzerider. "You're not very sharp yourself, are you. Try the cabinets near the entrance." The dry advice is given with a jerk of her chin upwards to indicate the front of the large caverns. "You're more likely to find a strap there, and.. why a strap?" Puzzlement darkens the girl's blue eyes, which have already flicked here and there to note V'lano's agitation. Adjustments to the basket at her hip secure it further there, so her free hand moves forward to place itself lightly against the bronzerider's forearm. "You shouldn't work yourself up into a frenzy like that, otherwise I'll feel bad for doing you a favor, sir." A thin smirk fashions on her lips, lips pressed together, and one corner curling upward, "You're likely to get grey hairs faster if you fret so much, and then how would you be the talk of the candidate barracks? Though, I've seen some grey-haired riders looking quite distinguished."

"Yes, leather - " Agitated, the bronzer's moving toward the cabinets in question, brushing past the candidate if need be on his way, before he catches on to the fact that she might not quite grasp the nature of the thing. One hand raises to a metal pull on a cabinet near the entry, but instead of tugging the door open the gold-tanned fingers just rest there while V'lano twists his torso around to squint back at the dark-haired girl. "A whetting strap," he defines in careful tones. "Better for fine knives - paring, coring, garnishing - than a stone." The right eyebrow crooks twitchfully, but the smile on his mouth is beginning to curve in an unforced manner, and there's a glimmer forming in his dark gaze. The hand drops from the cabinet-pull and finds a spot on his hip. "Given I couldn't name the half of you with your faces before me, how'm I 'the talk' of any such thing? You're too sharp for your own good." Pun intended.

"Good looking, attentive, aren't those the qualities that all girls want, and boys envy? That greenrider didn't seem like she could keep her eyes, or hands off of you. Sir." Satiet murmurs, lashes sweeping demurely. Feigning ignorance of being studied, she tosses the lengthening locks of her dark hair over a shoulder and resumes the task she'd set out to do earlier. Skipping past the two cabinets V'lano's already looked in, she moves with the grace of one at ease in her slight figure towards another set, and begins to distribute the various colored threads into slotted positions in a drawer. "You should find it there, I bet. I was looking for something for a friend earlier today. But," here, she's the one to pivot at the waist to flash a disarmingly charming smile towards the rider, "I've not the memory to keep useless information. It's over there in that general vicinity. Not, with the knives, like thinking people would suspect."

V'lano exhales a snort of dismissal, but his indifference is betrayed by a red hue creeping downward from the tops of his ears. He watches the skipping and placement of threads with blank intent, the forced-patience smile fading to leave a bemusedly crooked grin in its wake. "Huh. Figures," he chuckles, regarding the location of a strap nowhere near implements in need of sharpening, and turns toward the knob he'd held to open the door properly this time. "I'll remember. It's useful information to me. Ought to be to the kitchen, too. You'd think they'd have one on hand, but I suppose cooks don't think about keeping an edge on a blade, what with everything else." Voice muffled or echoing in various manners as he dips his head into the cabinet, then out of it and into another one, leaving doors open as he progresses along the shelves nearest the entrance, the rider babbles conversationally. "I'm not so sure about the envy part." There's silence after that, as a thought becomes speech with unexpected result.

Women, especially girls that are new to the intangible power that comes with the fairer sex, know when words have made their mark even if they're not looking, or dimmer lights give no leeway in discerning blushes. Ducking her head, a hint of the satisfied smile is fleetingly visible before her face disappears back to focus intently on her task. "The kitchen probably has one kicked underneath the tables and islands there. Thins get lost in large bustling places like that." Small shifts in steps take Satiet from one side of the drawers to the end, the final spool of thread placed neatly, and adjusted just so. Back across the length, her fingers dance over the top edges, positioning them in a perfectly straight line. Another sweep the opposite direction closes each of the drawers, after which she stations herself casually against the cabinets, facing V'lano. "Of course, envy, when you've caught the eye of so many of us poor holdgirls, and I'm sure more than a few of the weyr lasses." Abruptly, she moves forward, head tilting this way and that to look into the cabinets, "Why are you so intent on working in the kitchens anyway? You a kitchen worker, cook before Impressing?"

"No surprise. Every time I've been in there, I've felt lost in the bustle." V'lano leans deeper into the third cabinet in the row, stretching an arm into its depths. He mutters softly into the shadows, the precise words lost against the seemingly random contents. Finally he stretches back from the shelves, reaching across himself with the other hand to massage at the shoulder-joint that pulled taut to give him reach - but the hand withdrawn is gripped around the beaten wooden handle of a sharpening strap, the glossy leather doubled in his palm. He turns around with a grin of triumph - don't mind the dust clinging to the hairs of his arm, nor the smear of grime against his chin where his face pressed against the shelf above - to be confronted by Satiet's choice positioning and reply. He huffs an exhalation of exertion, then dares, "You're trying to pull a fast one on me." Nevertheless the grin of triumph remains long after he's rolled the strap up and tucked it under his arm so he can brush at his arm. "I was a butcher. Didn't work in kitchens. Keep guessing."

The dark-haired girl watches the bronzerider's determined search, a smile tugging on her lips. A hand reaches out to assist, grazing V'lano's pulled shoulder before dropping as he accomplishes his mission. "I wouldn't know the first thing about pulling a fast one, sir." In all innocence, Satiet meets the dare with softly spoken words of her own, coy but unremarkable otherwise. "I wouldn't, dare I venture, say I understand what you mean by pulling fast one." She keeps the tease in her words light and then moves to begin closing the various cabinets that were left open, causing her to drift away slowly from the Telgari rider. "Butcher, eh? In a Hold, I presume. You blush too sweetly to be Weyrbred much, from what I can tell. And a bevy of greenriders at your feet, I bet now, finding pleasure at the color of your ears like Lysseth's rider." Her movements still, an angelic expression softening her features, "Do you think yourself attractive, sir?"

There's another soft sigh of a snort at Satiet's demurral, but once she begins moving away the rider dips his head to attend to the strap, unlooping it to stretch between his hands so he can inspect its length. A few nicks along the edges earn concern from the wandering tip of one thumb, but by and large the much-used surface meets his apparent approval. "At Lemos - the minehold, not in the Lord's keeping. Though before that we were somewhere else. I was littler then." He speaks distractedly, in the semi-nostalgic tone of half-attended remembrance. Tugging at the wooden handle on the strap's upper end to test its braid to the leather, he steals a short glance up at the girl-candidate. "Hardly a bevy." A beat. "My looks haven't hurt me. Why do you ask?"

"So you -do- think you're good looking then?" Satiet considers the rider, gaze flitting over his features in quiet appraisal. "Don't you find that kind of thinking a little conceited of you? I mean, it'd be different if someone told you you were good looking, say, for instance, me, but to answer a question like that." One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug, and the look she levels V'lano is touched with concern that skirts along the edges of covert delight. "I suppose some girls are attracted to that kind of arrog.. self-confidence." Her lips finally settle into a slanted grin, the faint impression of a dimple visible near her right cheek, "Perhaps, I'm one of them."

V'lano's mouth parts, the smile fleeing its shape, but there's little chance for him to protest between Satiet's reply and Satiet's rant. As she goes on regarding his conceit, he presses his lips back together, making of them a thin, wry smirk; by the time she touches on 'like that,' there's a definite light in his eyes. The candidate, perhaps, is not the only one getting some enjoyment out of her well-laid trap. He even plays along a little, putting up the strap in one curled hand again and resting the other palm against one of the now-closed cabinet doors, turning a few degrees to off-center his weight casually against the wood. When his turn finally comes, he begins with the simple bit: "Are you?" But for his defense, he adds, "I did say they haven't hurt me. I could argue that a watchwher's looks don't hurt it; they serve a purpose. But you'll make of me a wher or a sailing-bird, whichever pleases you. Won't you?"

"Ah, but a lady should never answer that question. Kassima would be woefully hurt, I'm sure, if I confessed my devotion to your attractiveness, sir. Besides, your eyes do all the talking for me, in what they hope I'll answer with." Satiet replies, lips curved up sweetly, though the mention of the Telgari greenrider does darken the blue eyes with trace elements of clouded disdain. She places her weight against the final cabinet, now a good ways away from the bronzerider, and rests there. "You could have meant something completely innocuous, and looks, even bad ones, don't hurt anyone. But you knew what I meant, and I knew what you meant. Next time, sir, you should answer truthfully, instead of trying to be self-consciously polite in regards to your good looks." The distance between the pair is crossed, fingers crossing over her lips light, before the delicate touch reaches upward to place the tips of those fingers on V'lano's cheek, "Next time we meet, perhaps you'll be better equipped to answer that question, sir." Leaving the rider with one last smirk by way of departure, the slender girl pivots on her heels and makes her way out towards the lower caverns.

The dark-eyed rider's brows crook up rather quickly at this mention of Kassima; blame the context, since none of the previous made him react so. "I did -" Mean something innocuous, but she's moving toward him then. He dips his head just slightly as her fingertips make contact, perhaps instinctively providing an easier reach for the touch, but when Satiet's hand moves away a blush blooms in the place it's abandoned. His head jerks back up as she suggests altering his behavior, though, and her departure leaves him not pleased so much as pensive, a dark suspicion causing those upraised brows to sink. "Better polite than played," he mutters, but by now the words are for his own benefit, confirming for his own confidence his effort at the high road.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Storeroom Chats

2014-11-22T05:06:09Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Satiet, V'lano |what= |where= |when=day 10, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.28 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons-new= |icons=Icon satiet.jpg..."

{{Log
|who=Satiet, V'lano
|what=
|where=
|when=day 10, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.28
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=
|icons=Icon satiet.jpg
|desc=
|log=Central Storerooms(#17755RJM)
Though certain of the Weyr's supplies are stored at the places where they are used, most are kept here, in the central storage complex. A series of caverns grouped around a central corridor, the complex is cut on the grand scale necessary to hold all the items a full and active Weyr needs.

You're currently in the main corridor, wide and tall enough to admit a laden wagon. The walls are lined with heavy wooden doors, their wide spacing evidence of the size of the rooms behind them. Each of the doors features a posted inventory and map of its room's contents, and there are small piles of returned items beside several, waiting until someone has the time to reshelve them properly. There is a set of hardwood shelves available on a space of wall between two of the doors where people can place items when they are not sure which storeroom they belong in. Scanning the door signs, you note cold stores, dry food stores, rooms for textiles and furnishings, the records room, and the supply closet.

To the south, the corridor opens out to the lower caverns.
V'lano is here with you.
(Places code and +views (see '+view information'!) are implemented here.)
Contents:
V'lano
Obvious exits:
Lower Caverns

"Ought to have one somewhere." The normally richly gamey tone of the Telgari bronzerider is muffled by the door of a cabinet whose posted contents includes scissors, specialty knives, awls - everything you might need for making large bits of leather into smaller ones - but apparently not whatever V'lano's looking for. He unbends, withdrawing his head from the cabinet with a wrinkling of nose and squinting of eyes suggesting an oncoming sneeze, then shoves the door into place with a soft, only slightly slammy thud. "You'd think they keep them sharp somehow," he mutters, scuffing to the next door for increasingly irritable searching.

"Likely to poke someone's eyes out if they're too sharp," comes a sweetly toned alto from around a corner, followed by the dark-skinned face that is Satiet. Under one arm is a small basket of various threads and a pincushion of needles. Blue eyes observe the bronzerider wandering towards the next set of cabinets, a firm set to her lips indicating a form of determination as she closes her own cabinet with a soft click, and makes her way down towards V'lano. She takes a casual stance before him, basket and free hand resting on her hips, "Making yourself productive? Better this than the kitchens, or have you not gone yet?"

The rider's upper lip twitches, tempted by a sneer. The shape is squelched and forced into a rubbery smile while the door he's just opened gets closed, the interior contents left in peace. "Been," he replies, and at first it seems that it might be all the reply he's going to give. He turns a quarter-revolution from the cabinets, crossing his arms over his chest to sway his center of gravity backward slightly. "I think they're dubious about me taking a proper shift, so I've offered to do whatever they need done outside of the kitchens in hopes they'll get to trust me not to knock a pot off the fire turning around. So I'm looking for a strap." If that last doesn't make sense, it's only because Satiet's not V'lano; he seems to feel that explains all, and presses his lips into a smile of forced patience, trying to push off his agitation with the so far strapless storeroom.

"A -leather- strap?" Satiet's gaze slides to the cabinets whose contents are notated as a wide range of sharp objects and then back to the bronzerider. "You're not very sharp yourself, are you. Try the cabinets near the entrance." The dry advice is given with a jerk of her chin upwards to indicate the front of the large caverns. "You're more likely to find a strap there, and.. why a strap?" Puzzlement darkens the girl's blue eyes, which have already flicked here and there to note V'lano's agitation. Adjustments to the basket at her hip secure it further there, so her free hand moves forward to place itself lightly against the bronzerider's forearm. "You shouldn't work yourself up into a frenzy like that, otherwise I'll feel bad for doing you a favor, sir." A thin smirk fashions on her lips, lips pressed together, and one corner curling upward, "You're likely to get grey hairs faster if you fret so much, and then how would you be the talk of the candidate barracks? Though, I've seen some grey-haired riders looking quite distinguished."

"Yes, leather - " Agitated, the bronzer's moving toward the cabinets in question, brushing past the candidate if need be on his way, before he catches on to the fact that she might not quite grasp the nature of the thing. One hand raises to a metal pull on a cabinet near the entry, but instead of tugging the door open the gold-tanned fingers just rest there while V'lano twists his torso around to squint back at the dark-haired girl. "A whetting strap," he defines in careful tones. "Better for fine knives - paring, coring, garnishing - than a stone." The right eyebrow crooks twitchfully, but the smile on his mouth is beginning to curve in an unforced manner, and there's a glimmer forming in his dark gaze. The hand drops from the cabinet-pull and finds a spot on his hip. "Given I couldn't name the half of you with your faces before me, how'm I 'the talk' of any such thing? You're too sharp for your own good." Pun intended.

"Good looking, attentive, aren't those the qualities that all girls want, and boys envy? That greenrider didn't seem like she could keep her eyes, or hands off of you. Sir." Satiet murmurs, lashes sweeping demurely. Feigning ignorance of being studied, she tosses the lengthening locks of her dark hair over a shoulder and resumes the task she'd set out to do earlier. Skipping past the two cabinets V'lano's already looked in, she moves with the grace of one at ease in her slight figure towards another set, and begins to distribute the various colored threads into slotted positions in a drawer. "You should find it there, I bet. I was looking for something for a friend earlier today. But," here, she's the one to pivot at the waist to flash a disarmingly charming smile towards the rider, "I've not the memory to keep useless information. It's over there in that general vicinity. Not, with the knives, like thinking people would suspect."

V'lano exhales a snort of dismissal, but his indifference is betrayed by a red hue creeping downward from the tops of his ears. He watches the skipping and placement of threads with blank intent, the forced-patience smile fading to leave a bemusedly crooked grin in its wake. "Huh. Figures," he chuckles, regarding the location of a strap nowhere near implements in need of sharpening, and turns toward the knob he'd held to open the door properly this time. "I'll remember. It's useful information to me. Ought to be to the kitchen, too. You'd think they'd have one on hand, but I suppose cooks don't think about keeping an edge on a blade, what with everything else." Voice muffled or echoing in various manners as he dips his head into the cabinet, then out of it and into another one, leaving doors open as he progresses along the shelves nearest the entrance, the rider babbles conversationally. "I'm not so sure about the envy part." There's silence after that, as a thought becomes speech with unexpected result.

Women, especially girls that are new to the intangible power that comes with the fairer sex, know when words have made their mark even if they're not looking, or dimmer lights give no leeway in discerning blushes. Ducking her head, a hint of the satisfied smile is fleetingly visible before her face disappears back to focus intently on her task. "The kitchen probably has one kicked underneath the tables and islands there. Thins get lost in large bustling places like that." Small shifts in steps take Satiet from one side of the drawers to the end, the final spool of thread placed neatly, and adjusted just so. Back across the length, her fingers dance over the top edges, positioning them in a perfectly straight line. Another sweep the opposite direction closes each of the drawers, after which she stations herself casually against the cabinets, facing V'lano. "Of course, envy, when you've caught the eye of so many of us poor holdgirls, and I'm sure more than a few of the weyr lasses." Abruptly, she moves forward, head tilting this way and that to look into the cabinets, "Why are you so intent on working in the kitchens anyway? You a kitchen worker, cook before Impressing?"

"No surprise. Every time I've been in there, I've felt lost in the bustle." V'lano leans deeper into the third cabinet in the row, stretching an arm into its depths. He mutters softly into the shadows, the precise words lost against the seemingly random contents. Finally he stretches back from the shelves, reaching across himself with the other hand to massage at the shoulder-joint that pulled taut to give him reach - but the hand withdrawn is gripped around the beaten wooden handle of a sharpening strap, the glossy leather doubled in his palm. He turns around with a grin of triumph - don't mind the dust clinging to the hairs of his arm, nor the smear of grime against his chin where his face pressed against the shelf above - to be confronted by Satiet's choice positioning and reply. He huffs an exhalation of exertion, then dares, "You're trying to pull a fast one on me." Nevertheless the grin of triumph remains long after he's rolled the strap up and tucked it under his arm so he can brush at his arm. "I was a butcher. Didn't work in kitchens. Keep guessing."

The dark-haired girl watches the bronzerider's determined search, a smile tugging on her lips. A hand reaches out to assist, grazing V'lano's pulled shoulder before dropping as he accomplishes his mission. "I wouldn't know the first thing about pulling a fast one, sir." In all innocence, Satiet meets the dare with softly spoken words of her own, coy but unremarkable otherwise. "I wouldn't, dare I venture, say I understand what you mean by pulling fast one." She keeps the tease in her words light and then moves to begin closing the various cabinets that were left open, causing her to drift away slowly from the Telgari rider. "Butcher, eh? In a Hold, I presume. You blush too sweetly to be Weyrbred much, from what I can tell. And a bevy of greenriders at your feet, I bet now, finding pleasure at the color of your ears like Lysseth's rider." Her movements still, an angelic expression softening her features, "Do you think yourself attractive, sir?"

There's another soft sigh of a snort at Satiet's demurral, but once she begins moving away the rider dips his head to attend to the strap, unlooping it to stretch between his hands so he can inspect its length. A few nicks along the edges earn concern from the wandering tip of one thumb, but by and large the much-used surface meets his apparent approval. "At Lemos - the minehold, not in the Lord's keeping. Though before that we were somewhere else. I was littler then." He speaks distractedly, in the semi-nostalgic tone of half-attended remembrance. Tugging at the wooden handle on the strap's upper end to test its braid to the leather, he steals a short glance up at the girl-candidate. "Hardly a bevy." A beat. "My looks haven't hurt me. Why do you ask?"

"So you -do- think you're good looking then?" Satiet considers the rider, gaze flitting over his features in quiet appraisal. "Don't you find that kind of thinking a little conceited of you? I mean, it'd be different if someone told you you were good looking, say, for instance, me, but to answer a question like that." One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug, and the look she levels V'lano is touched with concern that skirts along the edges of covert delight. "I suppose some girls are attracted to that kind of arrog.. self-confidence." Her lips finally settle into a slanted grin, the faint impression of a dimple visible near her right cheek, "Perhaps, I'm one of them."

V'lano's mouth parts, the smile fleeing its shape, but there's little chance for him to protest between Satiet's reply and Satiet's rant. As she goes on regarding his conceit, he presses his lips back together, making of them a thin, wry smirk; by the time she touches on 'like that,' there's a definite light in his eyes. The candidate, perhaps, is not the only one getting some enjoyment out of her well-laid trap. He even plays along a little, putting up the strap in one curled hand again and resting the other palm against one of the now-closed cabinet doors, turning a few degrees to off-center his weight casually against the wood. When his turn finally comes, he begins with the simple bit: "Are you?" But for his defense, he adds, "I did say they haven't hurt me. I could argue that a watchwher's looks don't hurt it; they serve a purpose. But you'll make of me a wher or a sailing-bird, whichever pleases you. Won't you?"

"Ah, but a lady should never answer that question. Kassima would be woefully hurt, I'm sure, if I confessed my devotion to your attractiveness, sir. Besides, your eyes do all the talking for me, in what they hope I'll answer with." Satiet replies, lips curved up sweetly, though the mention of the Telgari greenrider does darken the blue eyes with trace elements of clouded disdain. She places her weight against the final cabinet, now a good ways away from the bronzerider, and rests there. "You could have meant something completely innocuous, and looks, even bad ones, don't hurt anyone. But you knew what I meant, and I knew what you meant. Next time, sir, you should answer truthfully, instead of trying to be self-consciously polite in regards to your good looks." The distance between the pair is crossed, fingers crossing over her lips light, before the delicate touch reaches upward to place the tips of those fingers on V'lano's cheek, "Next time we meet, perhaps you'll be better equipped to answer that question, sir." Leaving the rider with one last smirk by way of departure, the slender girl pivots on her heels and makes her way out towards the lower caverns.

The dark-eyed rider's brows crook up rather quickly at this mention of Kassima; blame the context, since none of the previous made him react so. "I did -" Mean something innocuous, but she's moving toward him then. He dips his head just slightly as her fingertips make contact, perhaps instinctively providing an easier reach for the touch, but when Satiet's hand moves away a blush blooms in the place it's abandoned. His head jerks back up as she suggests altering his behavior, though, and her departure leaves him not pleased so much as pensive, a dark suspicion causing those upraised brows to sink. "Better polite than played," he mutters, but by now the words are for his own benefit, confirming for his own confidence his effort at the high road.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:In the Living Caverns

2014-11-22T05:04:27Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Kegan, Linnea, M'rek, Satiet, Th'res, Thiana |what= |where= |when=day 6, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.27 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icon..."

{{Log
|who=Kegan, Linnea, M'rek, Satiet, Th'res, Thiana
|what=
|where=
|when=day 6, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.27
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=You meander through the archway, into the living cavern.
Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#1000RJs)
The impressive living cavern is seemingly as large as the bowl that cradles the hatching sands. Rivers of polished wood tables and benches arrow towards a raised platform crowned with a compact version of their sturdy design. Neatly crafted pegs, some fancifully carved, are tapped into holes in the wall and support clothing dangling like lazy sleepers. Woven baskets, both useful and decorative, hang along another wall. Bundles of autumn foliage in brilliant reds and oranges mixed with sprigs of crimson berries have been thrust into the baskets on the wall. Pickling spices and the tang of smoking meat fill the air. Banners worked with the designs of Holds and Halls beholden to the weyr cascade down the walls high above, interspersed with several brilliantly colored tapestries. Drudges move briskly about the room, unlidding plentiful glow baskets to help banish the thickening dusk. The clatter of pots and pans signal the approaching evening meal.
Contents:
Th'res
Thiana
Jemah
Tray of Bubblies(#6808V$)
Firelizard Perch(#5030Jae$)
Obvious exits:
Kitchen Bowl Lower Caverns

Th'res raises his eye brow at his sister who is as usal acting weird. Though he keeps up the quite conversation with his fellow wing mates at the Avalanche table.

Thiana sighs as she look back over at her twin thankful that not as normal a large outburst did not follow bread being thrown at her. She however does get up with her hides in arm as another little piece is throw from one of the younger and ratehr immature candidates and moves to a different table not wanting to deal with this today.

Thiana
Klah brown hair with flecks of golden red falls in slight curls to this girl's mid back and curves up at the ends inwards. Falling around her face not captured by any pins or ties the soft curls seem to have taken on the habit of inhabiting her vision. Longer almond shaped, soft gray-blue eyes and surrounded by lighter but long lashes on top and bottom. Her eyes are placed around a slender long nose which is dotted with freckles on pale ivory coloured skin. The sprinkling of freckles spreads down to her cheek and longer shaped face with thin but pouty rosy red lips adding to the colour contrasts. Like her face her 5'8" body is tall and lanky though grow into it's self shape wise giving her a rather womanly but small figure. She has long well worked leg which show just a bit under a simple brown pair of pants with a black leather belt securing them. Her shapely top and obviously often used arms are hidden under a similar brown coloured tunic with gold threading of dragons or various sizes. Black ankle boots are on her feet for protection but are mostly hidden cause her pants are to long like someone was expecting her to grow more, even at the apparently age of 18 to 19 turns. Around her neck on a silver chain hangs three diamonds clustered in a heart shape. The necklace shines and dances about Thiana's neck. A knot on her shoulder marks her as the High Reaches Weyr Steward.
Carrying:
Pete

Near the hearth, apparently having finished her meal already, sits a candidate with long knitting needles in her hand. Her fingers work at an idle pace, perl-stitch-crossover and whatnot, though blue eyes flick rapidly across the diners, catching sight of one or two people who look to be finishing up and keeping tabs on them. Satiet's needles click and pause as she recognizes the steward first by knot and then by face, from a distance and inclines her head in more or less a sign of respect.

Th'res grins abit and passes two marks over to a blue rider who has a very sly smile. Standing he makes his way over near the hearth to retreve his riding Jacket and nods to the Cadidate saying "good evening"

Th'res
Klah brown hair has cut the top into short layers that just brush the boy's temples. The back has been neatly trimmed, thanks to the Weyrlingmaster, to hang just even with the lads jaw line. His two almond shaped, soft blue eyes are neatly placed on each side of his slender nose. His lips are thin, though they do have a small pouting look that rest peacefully under his nose. Cheeks adorned with a small smattering of freckles. Two thin, round ears rear up out of the layered brown hair. Standing 5'10", he is a slender youth, with shoulders that have broadened to give the lad a square frame. A long abdomen that is now firm from all the exercises that have been his pleasure to endure. His arms are showing signs of becoming corded with muscles, his legs as well are starting to gain muscle definition. If you had to hazard a guess, his age seems to be about 18 Turns.

A medium brimmed hat covers the top of his head, and shielding his eyes from the sun. Dark brown riding pants cover his legs, they aren't overly baggy but don't revile too much either. His shirt of the day is a soft blue, with pockets on the chest. His riding jacket is set to match his dragon's hide, if he lays down on it he might just blend in. a blue and black HRW knot threaded with brown. It's tied in a way to denote him as a Wingrider of Avalanche wing.
Carrying:
Xaine's gift

Thiana waves to the candidate that waves to her and then catching sight of her brother again smiles at him warmly and waves somewhat girlishly, "So how are you Satiet right...so I may have got that wrong..."

Once again the clicking needles halt and Satiet glances up through lashes studiously. Momentarily a faint smile emerges, and she also inclines her head towards Th'res, though the respect is marginally less, "Evening, sir." A hand frees from the tangles of yarn towards another free seat, "On your way out, or getting some bit of warmth before leaving?" Her gaze slants out towards the bowl, returning to study Th'res quickly, "Though it's not so very cold out yet. Winter's coming soon though." Her small talk is said in a softly-pitched alto, but still distinct over the conversational din of supper. To Thiana, she grins dryly, "Better than Rylla at least, she gets me and Amarie confused from time to time, though I'm not sure why. We don't look -anything- alike." And from the sound of it, it's a good thing too, in this candidate's opinion. "I'll well enough. Dinner was filling, I'm sure I'll be gaining some weight while here. The Weyrs eat much better than some of the smaller holds."

Th'res smiles at Satiet, a shy but warm smile making him seem younger than he really is, "just making sure my art case doesn't get overly warm, it cracks the leather". He grins over at his sister and calls "that good of a day to day sis? you look like some one stole your favorite stylist again"

Thiana rolls her eyes at Th'res and sticks out her tounge, "Oh I still have that one with me of course love." She shakes her head and shrugs, "It's a fine day."

Satiet glances downwards, as if seeking out the case, and then back up. "You're an artist then? My father says art is, no pun intended, a lost art, but I suppose with the Interval you can be a rider and do your art at the same time." The warmth and openness of her words contain a hint of something that keeps the other people at arm's length distance from her verbally. "It must be nice to have that kind of free time," she notes, casting the steward a quick, questioning look. "Stylist? Ma'am?"

Th'res nods to Satiet "oh it is not so much free time, as I find that you can do more if you sleep less" yup the workaholic returns. "And as far as the art, well I let those who keep my works be the judge of them."

Thiana shrugs at this, "My pen really..."

"Oh." A pale rose colors Satiet's cheeks, and she shrugs back, though a questionably genuine smile curves her lips. "I thought you'd meant a stylist. One of the candidates gives fairly nice haircuts, even if she's a bit of a wherryhead when it comes to intelligence. She's passable enough though and I'm sure she'd love to mess with your hair if you'd like. But a pen, I've no idea really." Her needles begin to move again, the ball of pale blue yarn slowly getting smaller. "Some of us, sir, need sleep to remain as beautiful as they are." The alto lifts up, albeit cheekily, and a wink is tossed the rider.

The wink from the candidate promps a laugh from the Brown rider, it is a rich sound of waves dancing against the rocks on a summers day. "Well as no doubt my clutch mates will tell you, I am neither beautiful nor one to sleep in. Caritha used to toss things at me for waking them up on time for weyrling class."

Thiana chuckles at this, "He was apparently really bad that way."

"Caritha. Semirath's rider?" Satiet's brow peaks upward in askance, a smirk emerging soon after. "I can see that she'd value her sleep, and probably needs it, I'm sure." Her gaze drifts to the art case, chin lifting curiously, "I'd love to see some of your work sometime, I've no eye for art, practically heathen in how much I know about pictures or.. paintings? Do you paint, or sketch or some other art form?" Her inquiries sound interested enough, even if her eyes glaze with the beginning trace elements of boredom. "How have we been lately, ma'am?" She latches herself onto another topic with an incautious, wheedling beam for the steward, "None of us been getting in trouble, much yet?"

Th'res nods to Satiet, though being Bitran by nature has caught the ladies tone and says "yes well Caritha did value strange things that are beyound my understanding as a male." he nods to Thiana waiting for the answer to Satiets question.

Thiana chuckles at this and rolls her eyes, "No one in big trouble just a few candidates who think they are funny..." She sighs.

"That's good then." Satiet replies, that smirk lingering on her lips. "It's a pity that we aren't making your life more difficult then. If you'd like, I'm sure a few things could come out for you to get upset and very coordinator like over." Blue gaze skirts across towards the brownrider and nods. "I'm sure. Caritha's the one with the Igen weyrmate? She mentioned it once, I think. Some girls aren't very hard to understand at all." And she apparently takes that to explain it all, as her conversation dwindles off to tie off one end of the yarn, reaching down into a basket for a darker blue ball. Quick loops start off the next color and off she is knitting again.

Th'res raises an eyebrow at Satiet "oh so someone finaly roped down Little sister, and at Igen no doubt." he grins at Thiana "do remind Qort that we need to take a trip to Igen and find the lucky rider."

Thiana giggles at this, "yes Sir."

Linnea wanders in from the tunnel to the bowl.
Linnea has arrived.

"Little sister?" Satiet's eyes light up a bit at the new information, her brows both lifting fractionally. "Caritha's your little sister? And the rider's name is P'wert," she fills in helpfully, "Similar to twerp, but not quite. Rearranged letters make all the difference," she mutters. But a quick shake of her head brings back the distant smile on her lips. "See, girls aren't very hard to understand at that. Truly."

Th'res smiles at Satiet "well not by blood but we view each other as brother and sister. Were as close as the real thing" He moves abit to get away from the fire and set his art case down on the table before refilling his mug with klah.

Thiana curses under her breath as another piece of bread in throw, "Okay that is it." She picks up the hides and starts to pull her blue cloak over her shoulder, "Don't make me report you to S'rist you little monster."

Th'res rolls his eyes and says to the candidate that is not being yelled at by the steward as he walks over to the candidate table and leans over to whisper somthing in the young mans ear. after a few moments of conversing the candidate shoots out of his chair as pale as a sheet and runs into the kitchen. Soon after dishes start to clang as there are being washed at a high rate of speed. Th'res looks pleased with himself as he moves to sit back down behind his art case.

An girl of average height, mostly hidden behind a raised klah-pot, makes her way toward the drink station, blue eyes peeking around the edge of the pot taking stock of those who are in the room before they can see her. Noting Satiet, Linnea's pace increases, though she pauses, frozen midmotion, as Thiana curses, thinking it might be aimed at her.

"Take away his bread." Satiet advises dryly. "Send him to bed without supper, it worked for my brothers." And her, but that's easily left out. "He's no big loss anyway, a bit of a lunkhead, not very bright. I'm not even sure he'll understand if he's being scolded, but take away his food? And he'll be caterwauling nicely." The candidate in question is given a knowing smirk, her attention refocusing on her knitting. It's a little late in the dining hour, most of the diners clearing off the last bits on their plates, and near the hearths the dark-haired candidate sits with Th'res and Thiana within conversational distance. "Ah, so you love her as one would love a sister no doubt. Sibling, fraternal kind of love. Cute." For now, Linnea remains unnoticed - lucky her.

Thiana smiles and chuckles as her brother does this, "What did you say love?" She asks and moves over to place a hand on her look alikes shoulder.

Th'res smiles at Thiana "oh I just told him that if he didn't start doing his chores for the day I would have him help me scrap the star stones clean of all the firestone ash that is up there from turns pasted" he smiles at the newly arrived candidate and says "good evening".

Linnea, as a long moment passes, notices the muscles in her arms shaking and threatening to spill the klah-pot refill down her light-colored blouse, and thus it is warily that she lowers the pot. If she doesn't look at Satiet, and doesn't do anything to attract attention from the punishment-doling siblings, she might be safe. Hence she reaches the table without further incident, and, keeping her head down, changes out the old pot for the new. Drat. Spotted. And...spoken to? Her head slowly raises, and she replies, snappily, "Good evening! Sir. Ma'am. And Sattie."

Satiet's nose twitches violently, followed by a twist of her lips struggling to remain expressionless. "Satiet," she corrects mildly though insults remain unspoken in her pale eyes. "Evening, Linnea. Did you find any of that black dye yet? If you haven't, I've sent word to my mother to see if she has any in store. Or black thread for that matter." Finishing up a row of knitting, she uses the free needle to gesture towards the seat across from her, "Sit. I don't think I've seen you since breakfast." She teases wryly, "Avoiding me, are you?" The hapless candidate that's sent in a scurrying motion towards the kitchen is given a dark look, that slides towards Th'res and then the candidate coordinator.

Thiana looks back at the candidate giving a look towards her and her brother, "What?" She asks quickly.

Th'res glances over at Satiet and gives her a cunning smile, yup he isn't as simple as he clames to be. Turning his attention back to Linnea just observing for the moment as he leans close to Thiana to whisper somthing to her.

Linnea offers Satiet a graceful smile, and she repeats, "Satiet," in an obedient and indulgent tone. "How did I forget? I'm just so absentminded today." She straightens the pile of cups near the klah, then glances toward the whispering duo. "I'm not so sure I should sit...there might be other chores I ought to be doing." The unspoken is that she doesn't want to be yelled at like the other bad candidate, probably, and she muses at the cups. "Wonder how they stand up like that? All in a row. How the people who make the cups know to cut them so they nestle just so and don't fall over." Naw, she's not avoiding Satiet, no way!

Th'res smiles at Linnea "oh no you can sit, it seems that all the work is being taken care of for the moment" he says as he watches his new favorite candidate scurry around cleaning up dirty dishes.

"It's not so terribly difficult when you're -you-, Linnea, to forget simple things." Satiet offers with as much grace and indulgence offered. "You must be terribly busy to try and remember everything. Sit." Neither commanding or insistent, it is, in fact, a request that's unused to being denied. "The brownrider was showing us just how easy it is for us to get into trouble, and doing a fine task of it, and the Steward was regaling us with stories of her pen, I think, and how we aren't getting in quite as much trouble as we shold be." She glances back at Th'res and then smiles in an insipid fashion, "I don't believe you've introduced yourself yet, sir, and I'd dare say it's not very polite to converse with strange girls, whether you know their station in life or not, without a proper introduction. Satiet," she starts off and then gestures to Linnea's dwaddling figure, "Linnea."

Thiana smiles at this and takes her seat again.

Th'res smiles and stands saying "Do forgive me ladies, sometimes my manners seem to slip as I spend most of my time in the air riding sweeps and working with younger Weyrlings. Th'res rider of Brown Qortenenth."

Linnea looks hopefully at Thiana, as if she'll contradict what the rider says, but she doesn't, and woefully, Li marches toward a seat. "Are you sure? I mean, I can restack these cups, count them or something?" Reaching for something, now, she's drawn toward Satiet like fly toward spider. "Well met, sir brownrider sir. As she says, Linnea of River Bend, just down the way." After a few more steps, she smoothes out her skirt, frowning at the damp patches from dishwater spills. "Steward? Ohh. Would you know where I can find elderberry, dried? It makes a fantastic dye, and I haven't found any in stores."

Thiana smiles at Linnea, "Oh just sit down and relax hun. Thing will not fall apart if you do and how much do you need and for what?" She asks and moves to sit down beside her brother and leans her head on his shoulder.

Th'res smiles and says to Thiana "Sister dear, do we still have any of the sented oils for the dragons? Qort seems to want some."

Satiet watches the ongoings with another of her smirks, withdrawing into her knitting again but keeping her head tilted to keep abreast of the conversation. "Well met, Th'res, sir. The pleasure is mine." Though nothing of the sort was remarked on in the first place. "Don't fruit dyes made by amateurs wash out quickly though?" A stitch is stopped just for the girl to look up at the other candidate with a lopsided grin, "I know next to nothing about dyes, but it'd seem easier to buy the dye and have it be permanent than risk it fading after all your hard work."

Linnea cooperatively does as she's told, taking up a seat near Satiet as she's been directed. Her hands play in her lap, fingers twining together almost nervously, and she conquers that by sitting on her hands to keep them still. "I guess no elderberry. Ohh, scented oils, though. Can you imagine the whole dragon smelling good? Not that they don't already, but..." That one trails off as Li stares at Satiet. "I just want to repair the rug in the candidate barracks. It'll fade out anyway. Better the touch of an amateur than the waste of good dyes just to have firestone belch left on them."

Thiana hums at this and bites her lip whispering in her brothers ear and nods at him, "I'll find it for the brown lug." She smiles and stands up starting to grab his hand and saying, "come along with me?"

Th'res almost chokes on his drink as he glares out into the bowl and then shaking his head at Thiana "I can't dear, the Brown lord says it is time us to start our sweeps"

Thiana hums at her brother and asks playfully, "Can I come?"

M'rek has connected.

Th'res walks outside to the bowl.
Th'res has left.

Thiana smiles at this and nods her head, "always Th'res." She wraps her cloack a little tighter around her and waves to the girls, "See you both later."

Thiana has left.

Satiet watches the pair leave, her lips twitching with withheld mirth. "I can't tell if they're related, or somehow interested in each other." Obviously, she's not up and up on their relationship, but that's of secondary importance. With Linnea left alone with her, the girl turns her charms onto the other candidate. "We missed you at breakfast this morning. But no worries, I've saved you a few muffins back in the barracks. Mix it with some of the tea Joilin's mother sent her, and we can have a right tea party later on." Her needles begin to clack against each other again, the pace quickening as she begins to settle into her work. "I don't see why you'd want to refurbish that rug. Like you said, it'll get dirty again anyway. It seems a lot of work to bother with."

Kegan strides into the cavern from the lower caverns.
Kegan has arrived.

Linnea raises one forlorn and recently sat-upon hand, a few fingers helplessly waggling as the two leave her mostly alone with and at the mercy of Satiet. "So. That was exciting," she ventures. Leaving that to hang for a moment in silence, she straightens her posture and smooths her skirt before mustering a reply. "I just want to. So people can learn from the lessons it might teach. I don't know. It seemed like a way I can contribute." Joilin's tea is doubtfully assessed, Li's expression shifting from thoughtful to suspicious. "I can't tell either, about them. Maybe they are just affectionate with each other? Seems like family could get lost in a place like this." Does that tone sound hopeful?

M'rek strolls into the living caverns all polished up from the top of his shaved head to the toes of his boots. He waves before he moves over towards the serving tables and gives the klah pots a dubious sort of look. After a moment's hesitation he gets a clean mug and pours himself a full cup of the strongest looking brew and then turns to those gathered offering a general greeting of, "Evening one and all."

Sarcasm clouds the girl's pale eyes, and she glances at Linnea dubiously. "I heard most weyrfolks consider the entire Weyr their family. Presumably because half of them can't tell who their father is, and the other half doesn't care to know. It works out nicely in the end, I suppose." Satiet's work doesn't stop as she speaks though her neck strains up to try and peek at the serving tables. "Say, you wouldn't mind getting me a glass of juice, would you? I've been sitting here all night trying to finish this blanket for my mother 'fore her Turnday, and I'm quite parched." Expectant doesn't even begin to describe the dark-haired girl as she continues on with her words, believing that her request will be carried out with little argument. "If you'd like to waste your time, I can't stop you, but maybe you'd like some help. Get it done with faster so you can spend your time doing other things. I'm not handy with a sewing needle, but I could keep you company. No point in sitting in the barracks all lonely like you were last night." Seated at the hearth, she catches the greeting from a familiar voice, though can't quite see the owner of said voice yet as a group of people block her view. "Evening, sir," she greets nonetheless.

Kegan slowly makes his way from the lower caverns, eyes half closed, hand stifling a wide yawn. From the state of his hair, he apparently just got out of bed. He's not but a few steps into the living cavern before he stops and looks around, letting his eyes adjust to the cavern's light.

Linnea's wave of goodbye fades away, and she starts to lower her hand. "Good evening, sir," she says, then folds her arms over her chest. "I most certainly will not fetch you a glass of juice. It'd better serve you to get up and fetch your own. Then you'll be giving your neck a chance to stretch and that would stop you from feeling all stiff and sore later." Li tries to save her harsh words in the face of authority type figures, though she wilts somewhat toward the end of her quietly hissed retort. "It's for your mother?" Shock in her voice, as if she can't imagine Satiet thinking of anyone else but herself. "Who's he?" she wonders, figuring Satiet will know, and dipping her head at the black-clad man.

M'rek looks around for the mysterious 'Sir' and then laughs and looks into his mug before making a face at that brew he despises so muchly. He tilts his head a little bit and catchs up on the banter and then smooths a hand over his best dress jacket. There's a look towards the way Kegan comes and a nod for him before M'rek looks curiously around, almost as if he expects someone to show up.

Kegan
Looking to be in his early thirties, Kegan has generally pale features even though he spends most of his time outdoors. His hair is tousled black and frames his face. Light green intelligent eyes stare out from under thin brows, his nose is slightly crooked, and his smiling lips thin. He's just a little under six feet tall and is typically dressed in mostly clean trousers, an old, but hole-free, shirt, and comfortable wherhide boots. On his shoulder he wears a Journeyman Herder's knot, the cords weathered and frayed.

M'rek
Tall and broad shouldered, M'rek is impressive of form. The pale skin of his face is marked with a long healed scar that snakes down his left cheek for at least two inches. Other than the mark, his features are attractive enough if on the rugged side of handsome. His eyes are a dark and moody black that seems to spark all the more for their shadows. This twenty-six turns old male has had all the hair on the top of his head shaved off, leaving him smoothly bald. His eyebrows are jet black, so possibly that was the color of his hair. The clean look of his pate is interesting, certainly a change for the man.

M'rek wears a dark blue shirt of some impossibly soft and gleaming material that is half covered by a jacket of a very fine grade, supple leather. The jacket is jet black and has a notched collar that seems to suit M'rek's style. Tight black leather breeches match the jacket and go a step farther with diagonal slashes of midnight blue leather that trail from hip to polished boots of black. The belt around his waist holds a large knife and is fastened with a buckle that is shaped like a dragon. There is a High Reaches Weyr rider's knot on his shoulder with a thread of bronze to indicate the color of his lifemate.

Kegan's eyes focus enough to catch the wave from M'rek, so he returns the gesture with a feeble wave back. Pleasantries completed, he strides to the tables and searches out the pitcher of klah, filling a mug with the dark liquid, some of it lapping over onto his hand. "Shards," he mutters as he shoves the meaty portion of his thumb into his mouth.

"He's a devil of a man. Trouble, in other words, according to himself. Which, granted, may not be a very good source for self-judgment." Satiet ignores the rejection of her request, continuing to knit placidly, except a pointed throat clearing cough interspersed in the silence. Her knitting goes to an end, at least for now, the needles placed across her lap, and the soft blue shades spread across her knees and then over her lifted legs. Looking pleased, she grants Linnea a quick grin, her pale eyes brightening at the mention of her mother. "It is. Her Turnday's coming up, and it's the first time I've ever been apart from her, and I'm sure she'd like it on the little fisher boat she and my father go out on. It'll keep the cold out at least, and look pretty while it does." And of course, the aesthetic quality of gifts is far more important than their practical nature. But her inflection changes abruptly as she casts M'rek another look, now that the people have moved off, and an involuntary smile emerges on her lips. "Why don't you go offer him a drink of brandy and ask him yourself if you really want to know. He likes his liquor." Looking past M'rek, she notes Kegan's entrance along with a number of other people with vague nods. "Evening, sir."

Linnea almost laughs at Satiet's explanation. "He calls himself a devil? Watch out, then, lest you be writing home news of a different shade to mom to go with her turnday blanket." She frowns for a moment at the dishwater circles spread out round her overskirt, then as first the dark-clad man frowns at his beverage, and again as the green-eyed tousled man burns himself on it. "Shells. Should've waited until that pot had cooled more before bringing it out." She half-rises, ignoring Satiet's advice and taking a few steps toward the table where Kegan is stationed, "Would you like something chilled to put on that? A slab from the juices or milks? That looked like it hurt, and I'm probably to blame."

Kegan waves off Linnea's concern with the hand not in his mouth. "I'm fine," he says tersely before blowing across the red portion of his palm. "My own fault," he adds, in case the woman continues to think she is at fault. He looks even more dour than normal tonight.

Kegan has disconnected.

The bronzerider, who's really more like the devil's messenger than the devil himself, does seem to be sober and all dressed up this evening. M'rek even looks like he's behaving himself. At least he's not doing anything that's obviously going to land him with extra sweeps or under the thumb of his Wingleader in some other fashion. He looks at the mug of klah he's poured and makes a face before he turns a little on his heel and starts to pace a little bit, across the flow of the serving tables and then back again, muttering something to himself that includes, "...our bargain..and so forth..and you owe me. Or. No. You had no right..yes..that's better. hmm."

"You're so immature sometimes, Linnea," the alto remarks, a hint of disdain surfacing in her voice again. From her vantage point of the hearths, the visible line of sight around her to the serving tables clear, Satiet watches M'rek with no little interest, finally calling out towards the oddly clean man. "You look distracted, sir. And might I even venture, that you're actually sober? Given up drink in favor of impressing a girl with some nice clothing?" Needles are picked up again, ready to start weaving in and out of each perl and knit, but before she can begin she glances at Kegan and Linnea.

Linnea frets, wringing her hands. "If I'd allowed that to cool properly, you've been safe from yourself," she explains. "Here, take a cut of ice." She moves around the back of the table, draws a broken piece from under a juice pitcher, and holds it out, dumbfounded by M'rek's pacing and apparent talking to himself. "Has he a firelizard I can't see, or is he in his cups early this evening? Or maybe, he fought thread so amazingly, and when he got attacked by the mean one that left him the scar, it burned up part of his brain and now he just talks to himself?" She chews her lip at Satiet's insult, but squares her shoulders and tries to ignore it, in favor of looking at Kegan eagerly, completely unaware of his dour mood, hoping he can provide some of the missing information in her unofficial unscientific enquiry.

M'rek must be up to some particular deep trouble to be so dressed and scrubbed. He comes to a halt hearing Satiet's voice and he looks around, picking her out with his dark eyes before he makes enough steps in her direction that he can speak to her without having to raise his voice. "Aye, well, I'm distracted enough and I suppose you could consider it to be over a girl if not for a girl. Aye, I'm sober as well. So far. The night's still young, after all." There's a passing glance of interest to the knitting and then as he's able to pick up Linnea's words he laughs, "Just talking to myself. Sometimes you have to get the words just right beforehand so you don't lose them if you get phased by something. Or someone. I very well could be missing part of my brain though. I doubt anyone would argue over that. So. What are you ladies up to this evening? Plotting the fate of the weyr?"

"The sailors at home, the ones who get knocked around frequently tend to be a bit slower in thought than those quick enough to dodge an incoming fist. They'd even need to write down what they wanted to say to girls should they ever get it in their minds that anyone would even -want- someone dimwitted enough to get smacked around." The words of advice seem misplaced, if not for the significantly dry look Satiet affords the rider. Linnea is given another look, one that starts to border on exasperation, and she shakes her head, "You need to stop being so fussy, Li. Grown people can take care of themselves." Apparently needlework is shot for the night, and the girl begins to pack her things into the small basket by her feet. "Making sure to stay clear of trouble, for sure, and perhaps plotting, in our own ways, the fate of the weyr, or in Linnea's case, attending to every need of the Weyr. And you? If it's not a girl that's roused you out of a drunken stupor, perhaps it's a boy? I didn't think you'd fancy them in that way, but.." she shrugs, "I'm not a very good judge of rider preferences as yet."

Linnea passes off the ice to the rather unwilling and still mostly-asleep Kegan, then she drops another sliver of it into the steaming hot pot of klah, which causes it to splash about dangerously while Li makes warning gestures at anyone who might consider coming close. That disaster averted, she scoots around the long end of the table, slowly returning to stand near Satiet as a moth comes to a flame. "I completely understand that. You're not addled just because you like to practice to get your words right." A pointed glance is given Satiet, see...this man has sense about talking to oneself. "We're, ah..." The discussion of rider preferences halts her tongue, and it sticks, quieting her. "Uh."

M'rek shifts the mug that he's not drinking from one hand to another and then laughs softly at Satiet's words. "Oh. Is it quick thought that leads to avoidance of a fist? I always thought it was quick motion without the need of thought." His smile is teasing and wry, "But then maybe you'd know more about brawling sailors than I." His eyes are full of some kind of mischief. "Aye. Well. It's not a girl that's roused me from my stupor for the duration of the evening thus far, at least not in the sense that you're thinking, Satiet Lass. But. Man. Woman. What does it matter as long as it's someone who can hold your attention? It can be hard enough to find someone interesting enough for that." Now the look on his features is mirthful, easing the worry that must have been settled around his eyes as he looks to Linnea, "Now. Many would say that I am addled. And they're well deserving of that opinion. I don't always make sense to most people."

"Well, the two of you are clearly well matched for the evening's duration then, addle-brained and.. well, someone pretending to be addled?" Satiet remarks, though to which title goes to whom is unclear. She reaches down to gather her basket into her lap, and then shifts it to her arm as she gets to her feet fluidly. An easy amble gaps the distance between the hearth and the serving tables, where she pours herself a mug of chilled juice, and lifts it to hail M'rek. "Whatever it is that's gotten you dressed to look more or less human, I approve. Not that your drunken self isn't amusing to chatter with about girls named Kasedy and the like. At least then, you hold my attention. Sir." If M'rek is mirthful, she is entirely too amused now, and her good spirits display itself by fashioning a real life, honest to goodness, friendly smile Linnea-ward. "Try not to do anything I wouldn't do, and have to write a letter home to your mother about it. Have fun." Fingers wiggle around the handle of the mug, the slight girl weaving her way in and around small pockets of people to get to the exit.

Linnea shakes her head, albeit very slowly. "No sir, you make perfect sense. I think. At least, your advice and your turns of phrase make sense." That enough of a giving-in, she ponders the actual words for a moment longer, looking at Satiet speculatively, as if to point out that the mysterious dark-clad man didn't exactly specify what drew him out, and in sober condition, too. "I hope whatever you seek, you find." Sage words of advice, to follow those given by Satiet. "I'll...do that. Try to avoid things you'd do, I mean." Deliberate misinterpretation brings a smile to her lips, and she gathers up the abandoned empty klah pot and heads for the kitchen with it, "Refill duty, if you'll pardon, sir. Good night, Satiet."

You wander through the archway, into the lower caverns.

}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

Logs:Drawn Into a Spinner's Web

2014-11-22T05:02:18Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Linnea, Satiet |what= |where= |when=day 1, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.26 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg, |icons=..."

{{Log
|who=Linnea, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 1, month 9, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.26
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 21:31 on day 1, month 9, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a autumn evening.

Candidate Barracks(#430RAJs$)
This is a large, high ceilinged cavern cut from the rock. There are rows of depressions on the floor, couches for the young dragons who will soon live here. For now, cots have temporarily been brought in for the candidates while they bide their time, waiting for the exciting day when the eggs will hatch. Men keep to one side and women to the other. At the foot of each cot lies a small press for storing clothing and other small items.
The cavern has been decorated with old dragon tapestries hung on the walls, their colors slightly faded. A threadbare rug in the middle of the room bears the emblem of High Reaches Weyr, a mountain range in black on a dark blue field. A few low tables, chairs, and pillows have been scattered about the room, and baskets of glows placed strategically throughout the room keep the place well-lit. An opening in the southwest leads out into the Bowl.
Contents:
Candidate Cots
Firelizard Perch(#8812JSae$)
Obvious exits:
Weyrling Training Room Bowl

The women's side of the barracks is rather empty at the moment, most candidates either catching an early rest, or out to enjoy the warm fall air with their remaining energy. The picture-depicting rug in the middle of he room has had cleared away from it any chairs or tables, and now calls out to the eye, naked in its faded nature. Linnea sits alone on her cot, which is far removed in one sloped corner of the cavern. A string of bright red thread makes the journey from her lap to her mouth, suspended and wetted there before she precisely deposits the dampened edge through a needle's eye. The girl herself hardly pays her task any mind, her focus contemplatively encompassed by that rug.

The quiet is soon marred by the arrival of a slight raven-haired girl, with two girls at her side. Blithe chatter follows the trio, the central figure that of Satiet. "I hope you told him there was no way on Pern you'd even look at him, let alone speak with him or more," she remarks, one brow lifted up to regard one of the girls in mocking dismay. "You've chores to do, and well," she smirks dryly, hand gesturing towards the outdoors, "He's hardly worth getting in trouble for if you got caught." Hands fall complacently into the pockets of her trousers, a general glance tossed towards the caverns and finding it mostly empty except for a few candidates, blue gaze zoom in on one. "Evening, playing the wallflower today? Or are you generally just a loner?" Pleasantly cool, the alto is directed towards Linnea.

Linnea's thoughtful study of the worn rug convolutes itself into a mixed expression: joy at seeing Satiet and her faithful followers approach, and unbridled trepidation. "Great. This will either be wonderful, or I'll be humiliated...again," mutters the girl, her voice low as she bends to locate the needle she'd just about dropped when she was spoken to. Genially, when her head raises, she's plastered on a smile, almost the kind a puppy might wear, only of doubtful integrity. "Neither. I had some mending. I'm tending to it while the light is still good. Good evening," she nods to the girls who accompany Satiet, as if seeking a semblance of sincerity from them before she takes a deep breath and addresses their leader. "I trust you haven't ruined your pants yet, Satiet? Or are you so set on chores that they're a never-you-matter, boys about or no?"

"Boys go where they want to, I can hardly help it if.." she pauses, a soft giggle exhaling with her breath. The lightened expression is proffered the two girls around her, who've since given Linnea a look smug acknowledgement, a small jerk of the dark-haired candidate's chin dismissing them to wherever. Silkenly, they impart their good-byes and amble back out towards the bowl, the discussion of before started up again. Satiet watches their progress out, before flopping easily onto the cot next to the other girl's, "You should come out with us more often." A small, sly smile accompanies her invitation, "It beats sitting here mending at least."

Linnea wastes a long moment studying the response of the two girls before they beat it, as if administering a litmus test of sincerity. Doubtful, her eyes nonetheless flick to Satiet's, that quick motion tempered by an intent shift back to her needle and thread enough to give away her desire to fit in and be included, no matter how repulsive it might be. "C--come out with you?" Her voice, which starts small, gains in volume and momentum, the rate speeding up as she speaks, almost ending in an innocent tone. "Why would I have cause to go out with you? I've my own set of chores, and my family isn't about to let me out of our tasks as well. You wouldn't suggest I shirk chores, would you?" A look at the cot Satiet's sat upon brings a half-frown of insider confiding, "Be careful. Dundren sleeps with a tunnelsnake tooth in his cot for luck, and he's lost it somewhere in the sheets. Disgusting, isn't it?"

"Find someone to take them over for you. Maybe Dundren could." Satiet advises carelessly, the overly large shoulder falling off her shoulder a bit as she positions herself more comfortably. "Does he? Maybe that's why Tiersi yelped last night. She and Dundren pretend not to be together, but it's so obvious, don't you think?" The girl's nose twitches delicately, a disdainful sniff for the non-present pair. "At least they're matched for each other, those noses, big hands" her brow lifts significantly at the last comment, a wicked smile on her lips. "In any case, who said shirking chores. You've some free time, haven't you? I'd go half mind without a few hours in the evening to myself, and well, I find you amusing." If anything's sincere, it's this -- the blue eyes lingering expectantly on Linnea's wide forehead, slipping down to attempt to catch her gaze. "What say you?"

Linnea's mouth just about falls open as Satiet continues her critique of the absent pair, and her eyes widen, the irises darkening in color to match her incredulity. "You shouldn't--I mean, they're not even--" These protests are half-swallowed, Linnea debating the line between what she sees as a twin status: 'pretend friend of Satiet's' and what is in her mind, 'decent person.' The fence wobbling is almost clearly imitated in her facial expressions, and she's just about lured in until she's described as 'amusing.' Even then, her retort falls somewhat short of ireful, and weakly she returns, "I'm not sure that I'm interested." In walking with you? In the potential pair? "Dundren wouldn't be capable of my chores, and I'd rather not get in trouble for work that is in error."

"It's too bad." Satiet studies her nails, brushing the tips of one of them idly to shine in the glow's light. Slender legs swing off the edge of the bed, and after she gets to her feet, lazy steps bring her near Linnea's cot. There, she flashes the other candidate a disarming smile, hand falling onto the other candidate's shoulder. "I can't hardly speak with them," a tilt of her head to indicate two of her cohorts, "And you seemed likely enough to actually, y'know, talk with." Without asking, the slight girl perches herself onto the opposite edge of Linnea's cot, ankles crossing neatly. "I could find someone likely enough to take over some of your chores. V'lano was such a sweetheart to take over some of my kitchen duties." Rule number 2133 of teenage figureheads: when in doubt, name drop and bat lashes sweetly. "And I should be getting something deliciously fun sometime at the end of this sevenday."

As Satiet's shadow falls quite literally on Linnea, the seated girl pricks her finger with the needle, drawing a bead of blood to the surface. "You're blocking my light," is quietly murmured as she stifles the puncture's brief response. "Well. They've been nice enough to me. And--you got someone /else/ to do some of your chores? Isn't that, I don't know, against the rules or something? I mean, I know Rasiter chips firestone for Tiersi, because she's so small, but that's different." Oops. Belated realization that she's shared ammunition with the potential enemy. Linnea clamps her mouth shut, then can't hold back a peep. "He seem kinda...I don't know. Goofy? Anyway. I'm not surprised he said yes. I don't think he could tell a girl no." Daring her to prove otherwise.

Satiet smiles encouragingly, first putting her arms behind her and then falling backwards slowly to peer up at the other girl. "Tiersi's.. cute. If I were a guy, I'd probably help her out here and there. It's always good to do favors for other people." An expectant intonation lingers in the girl's alto indicating unsaid words that probably include in debt somewhere in there. "Rasiter though," her chin lifts so she can level Linnea a look, "Is a sweetheart. You should try talking to him sometime instead of just sit along the shadows. He could help you out, I'm sure. You could be almost.. pretty if your hair was cut better. To hide that forehead." Even backhanded compliments can sound genuinely caring - sometimes, and at least the smile on her lips is heartfelt, touching the ice glints of her eyes. "I could talk to him for you, if you're interested that is." Once the offer is made, her head falls back against the soft bedding.

"Sure, you go ahead and talk to him," Linnea mumbles, twining her thread aimlessly around her finger. "But don't do it for my sake." She tugs the twined thread off of her finger, and its loose loops unravel. One hand goes to her hair as it is discussed, reflexively tightening the ribbon that holds in back in place. "I'd rather do without the cut. I like it this way. It stays back, out of the way." She rises, smoothes out her blue skirt, and takes a few steps toward the rug. "I've been meaning to see if I can make an improvement to this," she confesses, her toe tapping against the design in a worn and faded place that was once a bowl of meat strips for young dragonets. Misinterpreting the favor comment, Li requests, done with the subject of boys and dating, "I don't suppose you could get the favor of some black dye? I could probably make headway with that."

"Then I've no reason to speak with him. He's a bit stumpy for my tastes. Goofy's a good word." Another look is slanted the hair from her prone position, Satiet's eyebrows twitching at the reply. "Your loss. Joilin, the blonde here earlier," she explains, "Kind of fluttery in thought and memory, she's handy with shears. And your eyebrows could do with a good shaping." Fingers trace patterns blindly along Linnea's covers, an elbow nudged into the girl's hip. "Black dye to do what? I could ask, I suppose. There's none in the stores to ask for?" A soft snort brings her off her back and on her elbows, dark hair swinging in lazy arcs. "Are you planning on painting the weyrwoman's eggs for her with black dye?"

Linnea has cause to again gape at Satiet, though it might be less evident by the direction of the glowlight. "I thought you said he was a sweetheart," she repeats, puzzled. "I suppose I've missed some of the subtleties that mark your interaction---my eyebrows? No way is anyone cutting any of my eyebrows. They grow that way, they stay that way. I don't need anything pointy near my eyes." She kneels down on the floor, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her posture so she has the least bow in her back possible. "I'm planning," she continues, speaking to Satiet as though she were a dimglow, "On making some repairs to this unloved foot-traffic tapestry. The colors are all faded, and while the whole thing is far too shoddy to repair," here she flicks back her ponytail and dons a vocal quality that comes direct from her brother, which is to say, haughty, "it can be improved vastly by having each scene outlined. For example, in a clear black thread. And no, there is none in stores. I checked there first."

A peal of laughter follows immediately at the end of Linnea's words, Satiet's cheeks flushing with a bit of pleasure. "You're refreshing, trying to talk down to me like that. Strangely, I like you, and whether you like it or not, you'll sit with us for meals tomorrow." It's said in the tone of one who's never been denied before, lacking the cajoling of before, and now just matter-of-fact. "I'll see what I can do about the dye of yours, it's a fair enough trade, though I think you're getting the better end of it. Consider it a favor on my part, and let me see the end result, hmmm? I'm sure you'll do a lovely job." From elbows, she shifts back to resting on her hands, chin touching her shoulder as she casts the other girl's back an overly casual look. Assessment flickers in her gaze, and a smug smile emerges while the Linnea is distracted. "It's good t see you're bathing lately. Joilin insisted she'd never seen you in the bathing rooms and I tried to tell her differently, but you know how girls are sometimes. I can even lend you some of my rosewater. I've precious little, but just a little dab makes everything that much nicer."

Silence marks Linnea's measuring of the demand-vs.-favor value, and numbly, she allows her silence to be her assent. Her needle plucks at the worn threads of the rug aimlessly, little achieved but what she'd defend aloud as 'damage assessment.' Head still down, Linnea's perfectly held carriage wanes, sagging that oh-so-carefully held line. "I'd like some, if you can spare it. In return," she counters, not one to enjoy a favor left open, though her voice comes with a slight waver mixed with a hard edge, "I'll treat your blouses to a tuber-broth ironing. So that you needn't trouble, of course."

As the girl slides off the cot's edge easily, one hand dusts off her pants, the other waving breezily at Linnea in deliberate misinterpretation of the girl's offer. "Don't worry about it. I don't mind favors for friends." Waiting for a few minutes for the other candidate to turn, a thin smile is allowed onto her features. "I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast, Linnea. Joilin will save the nicest muffins for us, she's usually up at the crack of dawn to put on her face. Hope the mending goes well." And as long strides as her short legs allow, carry Satiet out of the barracks in a self-assured amble.

Linnea remains on her hands and knees, her elbows sagging down onto the carpet, then her face resting against her upturned palms. As Satiet passes, she starts to speak, then stifles the words, instead nodding stiffly without looking up or showing her face. For a moment, even the needle drawing red thread is forgotten, brightly standing out against the dull and faded colors of the rug. The girl sighs softly, exhaling a jagged breath as she's left alone at last, to consider over and over again the scene she'd just taken part in, replaying and analyzing details like the blurred shades beneath.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

Logs:Veiled Contempt

2014-11-22T04:59:05Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Satiet, V'lano, Kassima |what= |where= |when=day 21, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.23 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg..."

{{Log
|who=Satiet, V'lano, Kassima
|what=
|where=
|when=day 21, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.23
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#840RJs)
Standing on the eastern side of the bowl, you realize why this is one of the most striking Weyrs on Pern. Arrayed around the north rim of the bowl are the Seven Spindles: high crownlike points formed of old volcano flows which were eroded to sharp spikes. The bowl itself is a rough ovoid shape, with a large lake taking up a good portion of the southeastern part. The bowl seems to slant down to the lake shore, and the soil becomes a little looser in that direction. From the east, the slight aroma of herdbeast and wherry hide rises from the feeding grounds. The northeast section of the bowl is full of activity: training of dragons both young and old goes on in a large clearing near the entrance to the weyrling barracks and dragon infirmary. Several small boulders dot the area to the north, forming a winding path to the ledges leading into the weyrleaders' quarters.

The evening is clear, not a cloud to be seen, giving you a perfect view of the stars. The smaller Belior is a nearly full waxing gibbous while Timor is a nearly full waxing gibbous. It is completely still, no winds blow and the summer air is pleasantly warm.
Contents:
Jaereth
Obvious exits:
Weyrleader Ledges Western Bowl Floor Dragon Infirmary Candidate Barracks Weyrling Training Room Feeding Grounds Lake Shore

Timor's light shines high towards the southeast, the pale moonlight crossing paths with that of Belior's and providing a softened touch of natural light to the bowl and those within. Seated in front of the candidate barracks is a slight girl, dark hair pinned back away from her face, and head tipped against the stone wall. Her knees are bent upwards, and bony elbows rest lazily against them, forearms dangling. For all intents and purposes, Satiet seems to be captivated by the two visible moons, or at the very least lost in thought.

The accepted gait of a bronzerider is a blend of machismo and business: always going somewhere, something pressing to do. It suggests a certain endowment of personality and of ego as well as a strong-minded focus on the immediate. It is a gait V'lano has yet to master. He wanders an aimless path in the moonlight, moving quite slowly along the fence that encloses the feeding grounds with a hand sliding along the topmost rail. The soil of the bowl makes gritty sounds beneath his boots as his restless excursion continues past the training rooms and on toward the mouth of the candidacy quarters, where the presence of a moon-admirer catches him by surprise and causes him to draw up short and stare, doubletaking to be certain she's not an unlikely carving he's never before noticed shaped in the stone.

She could be that, the moonlit profile unfaltering in its still study of the sky. But an exhalation of breath later brings that mystery to a close, and reveals that Satiet, is not a carving, or a new implementation to the bowl's structure. It's nominally empty, the bowl that is, only a few midnight strollers located here, and many of them on their way back in from the lake shore. Hand clasp, turning inside out and stretch forward, a yawn following the movement, and as she's about to get up, the watcher is noticed, and given a bland smile, though recognition is dim given the shadows that play along the ground. "My mother says staring without an invitation to stare is rude. I suppose I don't agree, especially if you think there's something worth staring at here."

V'lano
Tousled, sometimes fly-away curls frame a sun-drenched face made rough over the bridge of the nose and above generous brows from much time out of doors. Dark eyes framed by lashes too long for a young man's face express every little thing that comes into his head, saving him the trouble of much talking. His nose is a little narrow, but the even, smooth lips beneath it are not unpleasing, and a frame of smoothly curled hairs in the brackets of his mouth sets it off to advantage. His hands are slender and as expressive as his eyes, softened by much time in dragon-hide oil. He appears to be somewhere in his early twenties.

A tunic of undyed linen flows loose over his sinewy arms and even chest. Its pale fabric makes a swath down his torso, framed on either side by a cardigan sweater left open, woven in a dark sienna yarn. Trousers of coarser fabric tuck neatly into boots of harder leather, both likely chosen for ease of motion and cleaning. A fleece-lined wingrider's jacket graced with the badge of Telgar's Icewind wing provides footing for the simple rider's knot run through with a bronze thread.

Dim light might - should - protect the rider's ear-tips from displaying too hotly their common blush. "Sorry." He backs off a couple of steps, as if planting space between himself and the subject of staring makes the staring less severe. "There - I - ah." He gets control over his mouth long enough to look more carefully, at a woman now and not at artwork - after all, he's been invited to pass judgement, or so he could interpret. His posture relaxes visibly with the taking in of the hue of her hair, the knit of her sweater, the knot on her shoulder. "I'll stare on, then, if you prefer," he appropriately offers with a crooked smile that's sparingly inappropriate, one brow crooking. "Restless?"

Pleased, Satiet smiles vaguely at the implied compliment and pats the spot of ground next to her, all attempts at getting up coming to a halt. Instead she, rearranges herself back into her former position, knees up and arms dangling and breathes in deeply. "Mountain air has a different flavor to it than the sea's. Which is just another way of saying, sit, chat, I'm bored. And the natter of girls is enough to drive anyone mad in there." And when boredom sinks in, it never bodes well for this dark-haired girl. "Bored enough to suffer your company, unless that stutter isn't your charming reaction to me, and the norm for your speech?" is offered in pleasant speech, if a touch guarded. Her upper torso leans to the side to make out the shape again, gaze intent on discerning who. Archly, the question is posed in return, "And you? Restless?"

V'lano's smile is quick to answer Satiet's remarks upon boredom and madness, and his chin dips as if he could hide the pleasure of his grin with a dropped head and lowered lashes. "It's just my mouth working faster than my mind," he replies, sticking to the outskirts at best of the girl's question. He half-turns from her and tilts back his face to mock a glance at the sky, going on with, "Much of the time, yes." He sidles toward the spot patted and slinks downward into a crouch there, not quite yet claiming it, but with easy posture and a gaze out into the bowl that proposes chummy sitting side-by-side as an option. Closer, no longer silhouetted against the moons, he ought to be a little clearer there - and the fact that he wasn't before seems lost on him, as he chatters on without thought at introductions. "I thought I recognized a like malcontentment. Couldn't decide what to eat, can't decide whether to just turn in," he confesses.

"Some drink I had earlier is unsettled in my stomach. Twas my fault for taking that last sip. There's that line you know when you cross. And -that- doesn't bode well for your verbal skills. I do enjoy a good conversation. I suppose I've had my fill of them today," Satiet pauses introspectively, and with a slight shake of her head continues, "That it must be balanced at some point by pretending to agree that it is of utmost importance that Tresmin's hair was looking absolutely fabulous today." As the rider approaches, her face shifts to glance back up before looking down, surprise self-evident in the blue of her eyes. "You're giving everyone the run around today, apparently, sir." If she's chagrinned by her earlier cheek, it doesn't show noticeably, and her chin lifts with a little touch of arrogance. "And how fares the egg painting and your dragon's mate?" In innocence, her pale eyes round nicely, and she adds slyly, "And your mate, perhaps?"

"My mind," points out V'lano in a somberly dry tone, "Was otherwise occupied when I came upon you." He's quiet through the rest, though, hooking an elbow over one knee and lowering the other to the dirt, not quite settling into a sit but caving ever incrementally more to the pull of gravity. If Satiet's chin-up and sudden attachment of a single syllable's worth of respect is noted, he pays it no mind. Behaving as though they'd known one another all along, he just continues conversation, first with, "Run around? How so?" and secondly with, "My mate?" A heartbeat's pause. "I have a mate?" No coy watching of the sky's slow wheeling 'round Pern now, nor mindless enjoyment of the nothing-happening of the bowl - his dark eyes find their corners and spy on Satiet from them, narrowed.

"Your mate. Your dragon?" The deliberate mis-implication draws out a smirk on Satiet's lips, and as if no other explanation is needed, the girl is quick to shrug it off. "I think a fellow Telgari of yours was looking for you earlier. Strange disposition, though nice enough, I suppose." She looks, for a moment, to say more, her lips parting and one syllable said before her mouth shuts, pressing into a thin line. She's adept enough to keep her gaze on the sky throughout, "So tell me, V'lano, sir, what your mind was so preoccupied with? I seem to hear choice tidbits frequently here, and the gossip is just ever so much more amusing than back at home." Dryly, she adds, "High times, high hopes, and much drama fairs well at the Weyrs." A beat. "And the Holds. Or one Hold."

"Lifemate, some say," V'lano corrects in a gently amiable tone, his posture shifting again: he plants his shoulders against the wall and lets gravity take over, sliding down the stone to a half-tailor's sit with one knee up. Folding his fingers around that knee causes a few wrinkles to form in the fabric of his trousers. "He's impossible, which is no change, and Lhiannonth's - well, she's ever so much better at this than he is." That last's provided in almost a slyly secretive tone, sharing something perhaps Volath's not meant to overhear. "Strange disposition but nice," he muses, his focal point ranging back into the sky. "Honestly? With being a layabout. Thinking about what I'm not doing here, what I should be doing at Telgar, what it might be like when I get back there." The corners of his mouth slink wider, barely curled. "And what was on your mind when I so rudely intruded?"

"An abbreviation should work just as well. My tongue is sometimes too lazy to include the prefix." Satiet offers, unapologetic. "And I thought my intentions were clear, unless.." her blue gaze flicks over V'lano's frame, settling onto his shoulders, "You have a mate that no one knows of? Keep her, or him, I suppose, hidden somewhere in that guest weyr of yours here?" Her feet slide closer to her frame, knees pressed against her chest and arms wrapped around. "If you feel like being a layabout is such a chore, please, feel free to pick up the slack in our chores. It'll at least get your body moving, and while I can't promise mental stimulation in chopping vegetables, at least you'll be doing -something-? It's my favor to you." And such a favor it is. His final question, is noted, her shoulders tensing, but unanswered otherwise.

"Your tongue does not strike me as lazy." If V'lano's got a perceptive cell in his brain, it's responsible for popping that thought out, and afterward his fount of wit seems spent. He breathes easily, grinning at the moons, then lowering his head to follow their glow onto the shapes of the soil and stones of the bowl, the various glowing entrances leading off of it, and the dark mouths leading to adjoining caverns and niches. "I've been told I could probably acquire some work from a wingleader, but to say fair I'm leery of trodding on toes. Candidate chores honestly sound more game. - Say, chopping vegetables?" One brow lowers, the other crooks up. "You'd be able to make me welcome in the kitchens, you think? Do they take a shine to you?"

Kassima goes over from the western side of the bowl.
Kassima has arrived.

"If you wish," success filters in her words. "They like me well enough. I'm handy with a knife, at least in regards with food. I've been placed on kitchen duty twice in the last sevenday so I'm assuming they don't loathe my presence yet." Satiet picks tendrils of lint off the knees of her pants, and tilts her head towards the bronzerider, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. Her gaze intent, blue traces over the sun-touched curves of V'lano's faces. "You'd be willing to have a go at it then?" Mildly, as an afterthought the coy flirtation only apparent near the end, she tacks on, "And no, my tongue isn't oft lazy. You'd be surprised." Settled against the wall nearest the candidate barracks are two figures, the rest of the bowl being relatively empty of human presence, though a few dragons still linger. Moonlight shines from the southeast, casting a soft glow and creating spire-like shadows against the ground.

"Do you think you can get me a morning shift?" He doesn't make much effort to restrain the bargain-seeking tone; the deal's not struck yet, but V'lano's on the hook. He unlaces his fingers from round the front of his shin and creaks them against one another, then refolds them, head canting to afford him a better view of the candidate's profile. "Candidate's work wasn't any strain by comparison to training," he explains airily enough. "I might be interested in a shift here and there, particularly if you can get the kitchen to give me a go."

Hands tucked in pockets, book tucked under arm, Kassima's amble has a vaguely Lakeward aim and isn't particularly hurried. She whistles something--snatches of tune, perhaps even a medley, with no more than a few notes recognizable before it shifts into something completely different. Voices catch her ears, alter her path, and she saunters on over in the direction of the others. Quietly enough, just, to possibly pick up a few words of the exchange. "So I really should've set the ambush in the Bowl," she observes with a definite amusement once she comes to a stop. "G'deve, Vel. Candidate Satiet."

Thoughtful silence ensues, and Satiet begins to nod slowly, "Exchange fair, and I'll see what I can do. You, don't match any of the Teaching song descriptions of bronzeriders of the past." It's not entirely a compliment. "Mucking stables is yet another great pasttime of candidacy. I'd be more than willing to allow you my shift of those, though, I highly doubt Rylla would be pleased. She's.. irritable most of the time." Diplomatic only in voice, the girl's lips twist oddly, disgust perhaps being most noticeable. Easily, no signs of her looking startled at the intrusion - perhaps the whistled tune gave the greenrider away, she replies a touch smug, "I told you." Her lashes sweep upward to bring Kassima into her line of vision, "Did you and M'rek have a good talk?"

"I don't? Did they get my hair wrong?" V'lano unlaces a hand again to flick at his impatiently growing curls, nudging a wayward lock back from his temple. "I'm not sure what you'd consider a fair exchange. My labor for your free time? Seems to me you ought to be putting something up for trade." But he's only half-minding the conversation, already distracted by the approach and identity of another rider. The hand leaves his temple to wave her nearer, the curve to his mouth broadening with predictable affection. "So there you are! Looking for me somewhere unlikely?" His brows peak. "Join us - unless you mind, Satiet." Again the head canted toward the candidate. If there's bait on the line, the bronzer must have missed its set.

Kassima tips her head to one side. "We didn't talk long, actually--all politics, as you can imagine, the same as 'twere discussing when you left. So I don't know that 'good' is the word. But R'sel and Josilina came in later, and Jairen, t'brighten up m'lurk of ambush. I meant t'ambush you," she explains to V'lano, helpful-like. "In the galleries. Only I didn't, a'course, so I thought I'd check the Lake in case a'fore heading back--and here you are. Fortuitous for me." The amusement that characterizes so much of her exchanges is there, but paired with matching warmth, and one hand steals out from its pocket to attempt to tug a curl of the maligned hair. "I'm sure she won't mind," is added with a sidelong, bright, bright slice of smile for the Candidate in question. "In fact, I owe her a listing of your charms, mayhaps, now that you're present t'blush."

"Ah, but it's my favor, to allow you to some semblance of a productive life, no? It's a hardship on my part to give up my chores." Sarcasm dwells nicely in the space between her brows, the furrowed lines aging Satiet's appearance a turn or two. "Your hair, sir," lips curve sweetly here, "Is lovely as is. But you, bronzerider, do not act with the pompous arrogance that the Teaching songs attempt to hide, but can't seem to. Anyone with songs written for them in such grandoise detail must have had a rather fat head." Her hand waves to the invitation, neither assent or dissent from allowing Kassima to join the pair, and indeed the look she levels the greenrider is interested, bordering on overly-intense scrutiny. "A listing of his charms is hardly needed, though not minded." After a heartbeat pause, she continues idly, "And politics are naught for the weak-willed or dispirited. I suppose," her expression hovers on sardonic, "It bodes well that M'rek is so interested, as yourself, for you seem a lady of wit and charm." Such pleasantry, such neatly veiled contempt that it's untraceable.

"I go there when I'm called," V'lano tells Kassima by way of explaining his absense. He bends his neck slightly, putting his head forward to facilitate the greenrider's toying with the curl. "And when I fear she might have been kept there so long that she'll die of thirst. Only fair that I tote a skin once in a while in return for my long vacation." The young rider lifts his hand to try to capture Kassima's fingers in his, but he does color a little at both the suggestion of a charms-listing and at the dismissal of its value. After a soft clearing of throat he murmurs, not too warmly, "I'm not that well up on politics, but I assure you Kassima's every note the lady." Because that warning was meant only for Satiet, to the greenrider he makes levity of it, turning his gaze up to her with brightness in his dark eyes: "Aren't you, O Lady?"

Kassima slants Satiet a look that still contains mirth, though it may be of a sharper sort, and the new smile to curve her mouth is slow and thoughtful. "Ah, now," she demures. "While I appreciate the compliments, m'interest in political matters is primarily that of an observer. I leave that t'M'rek, who has more call than I... usually... t'use wit and charm in spotting and wooing the tunnelsnakes in our midst." She inclines her head to Satiet in graceful fashion before settling easily on the ground to V'lano's other side, quite as if the Candidate had after all given assent. "Seems fair enough t'me. If'n you truly want t'do penance, a'course, you could ask her whether Lhiannonth would mind *your* oiling her once in awhile; but that sounds more penance than you owe, really." Her long fingers lace through his readily, and in fact she attempts to tug his hand close enough to press a brief kiss to its back. "Thankee, Vel," she murmurs against the skin before straightening. That her eyes are likewise bright is little wonder, deep green under the moons: "I deny it and deny it, but you do seem determined t'make a lady of me yet; and one of these days, 'twill simply have t'concede."

"There are people who can't keep out of trouble, and those who lie under that fine line between interest and pro-activity." Satiet comments, the non-sequitor spoken in a musing fashion. The repartee and motions that are traded between the two riders is looked upon with amusement, her pale eyes fixated on the greenrider's lips that attempt to meet the golden-hued hand. Perhaps conceding this verbal sparring, the dark-haired candidate inclines her head, hands coming to press against the ground near her hips. "Ladies are not made, but born. Perhaps the lady in you has existed throughout the turns, and it takes but a deft hand, charming words, and V'lano's boyish looks to draw it out. Speak, though, of his numerous charms so I may equip my poor holdgirl heart against them."

V'lano's hand is willingly enough captured and kissed, and he turns it over to draw fingertips along the greenrider's jaw, pausing lightly at her chin before retreating to his knee; the other hand sets free at that moment and settles at his side somewhere between himself and Kassima, perhaps for her fingers to twine with. "She's large," he points out, presumably of Lhiannonth, but he gives the Telgari woman a quick grin for her inevitably approaching concession before tennis-courting his gaze to Satiet on his other side. Time to change the subject, somewhat forcefully and without efforts at subterfuge. "Now about these duties. I take some work off of your back and you let me pretend at being useful here. What, exactly, is unfair about this arrangement?"

Kassima lets her eyes close and leans gently into that touch; when they open again, the expression in them is one rather softer, and certainly warmer, than it was when she looked on Satiet. "That's the point," she feels obliged to note, her hand gliding down to clasp his. "'Twould keep you busy, if'n that's what you're after." Now, Satiet again: although she doesn't address the Candidate with the affection shown the bronzerider, her tone and eyes alike have shifted back to amiability. "Proactivity sometimes becomes hard t'avoid, when one has an interest. But I'd nay wish t'throw m'self into that boiling pot so deeply as some have; let's say that. 'Tis entirely possible that there may be something to this theory of yours... for all that I might argue 'boyish.' As t'charms--" It seems she might list indeed, but she breaks off, laughing. "I'm nay sure that he wants me to. I can probably tell you without making him redden too far that he's very handy with a knife, though, and a whetstone. As well as honing leather. Which, given the number of knives I need sharpened, I find very useful." She says this without batting a lash, but with an extra squeeze for V'lano's hand.

Satisfaction glints in the moonlight reflected in her pale eyes at the hasty change of subject, a blithe shrug her initial answer to his query. "I enjoy working." When it suits her. "There is nothing unfair, but perhaps, one day, you'll be able to do something for me to make me feel useful in a similar fashion? An open-ended agreement? I don't require much in terms of favors, sir, and it'll be comparably small." Satiet falls silent during Kassima's speech, merely smiling in indulgence for the greenrider's train of thought, awaiting the opportune time to speak again. "Men are a mark in the vast sea of things, it's how you utilize the knife that makes all the difference. Useful men should be stayed somehow." Interest peaks up one dark brow, before hands at her hips are used to be useful as well, pushing herself up to a standing position in one graceful movement. "I'll take your leave now then, sir, ma'am." Her memory can't be that short, given the bright-eyed look of ill-veiled mischief in her eyes upon Kassima. "For it seems," eyes drop to dwell on the hand holding that is now visible from her height, "You've much to catch up on."

V'lano does blush, though; perhaps the flattery upon his butcher-bred skill touches on his soft spots. His tongue parts his lips a moment, spoiling a grin that's forming there. "Don't make me swear an unknown obligation," he requests of the candidate. "But I'll owe you a favor, if that makes the deal." He sneaks a glance back at Kassima, but Satiet's discussing knives now and it's just not safe for him to look back that way, so this round of pong sticks with the girl, rounded dark eyes drinking in with a blend of amusement and horror her summary of how men should be handled. "So soon? I suppose I can't ask to keep you up," the bronzerider murmurs, following her impending escape upward and darting a glance toward the entrance to the barracks. "Catch me up soon; I'll look forward to knowing if you can offer a morning kitchen shift, especially."

"Wise nay t'swear," Kassi murmurs, amused again; for his blush, almost certainly, at least in part. "An interesting way," she says then, to the Candidate, "t'view men. I generally don't feel quite so... predatory--the only stay I'd want on a man is his own wish t'stay. But it takes a variety of views t'make the world go 'round." No further reminder ensues for the ma'aming; only a brief flicker of grin. "So we might. G'deve t'you, Candidate. Thankee for the interesting company this evening." Green eyes slew back towards V'lano, and her smile becomes one of pleasure as she teases: "Have you changed your mind on the definition of 'after'?"

You wander into the candidate barracks.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

Logs:Who Needs Murder When You Have Whiskey?

2014-11-22T04:54:19Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Kassima, M'rek, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 21, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.23
|quote="And politics are naught for the weak-willed or dispirited. I suppose" her expression hovers on sardonic, "It bodes well that M'rek is so interested, as yourself, for you seem a lady of wit and charm."
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 18:46 on day 21, month 8, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer evening.

You meander through the tunnel, emerging in an enormous cavern. You walk up a short flight of steps into the galleries.
In the Galleries of the High Reaches Weyr Hatching Grounds(#510RJas$)
Tiers of stone carved benches rise uniformly above the hatching sands, set against both the southern and western walls of the enormous hatching grounds. The warmth radiating from the sands make the cool stone benches a welcome change, especially for sand baked feet. One section of the galleries has been roped off for special spectators, and the seats within have cushions done in the dark blue and black of the Weyr. To the east, the cavern narrows and short flights of steps lead down to the cavern entrance or to the sands themselves. From the galleries, the many dragon ledges are visible, scattered all along the hatching cavern walls.

The cavern which has stood empty for so long now fills with visitors and weyrfolk, dragons and firelizards, all come to get the first glimpses of the gleaming flaccid eggs as the Queen lays them.
To see things down on the sands, you can 'view', or to see a specific object you can 'view <object>'. +viewhelp gives you egg specific viewing help.
Contents:
Kassima
VIP Hospitality Table
Obvious exits:
SAnds Bowl

It might be a slightly odd thing, that someone would come to the Hatching Grounds--to a foreign Hatching Grounds, no less--and seem to be paying so little attention to the eggs. Kassima isn't regarding the clutch at all, at least not at this moment. In the seat she's chosen a few tiers up from the sands, she's writing something on scraped hide, which along with a leather-bound book is propped against her legs.

Kassima
Kassima is a woman gifted magnanimously by genetics: one would likely guess her to be younger than her actual age thanks in part to high cheekbones and a brow lines dare not touch, and metabolism and height have both dealt a good hand in her slender 5'10" build. Her fine-boned features are framed by a black river braided and confined, allowed free only in the wayward forelock; there, it threatens to dangle into canted eyes the color of emeralds in shadow. A shrewd glint lightens these even when mirth does not, and the well-shaped brows above lend eloquence through their mobility.

Kassi seems to be in excellent health and condition. She is strong and fit, with enough tan to suggest time spent in warm climes recently; shadows may sometimes ring her eyes, but they shine for all of that. She currently wears a wine red blouse and black slacks that have become careworn in their Turns-long service. Two pouches and a long dagger hang from her ornamented belt; the glints of metal at her fingers (+detail available) suggest that she likes jewelry.

On one shoulder of her exquisitely crafted riding jacket is the black and white knot of a Telgar Wingleader, with a thin cord of red to honor her Benden Weyr origins and a strand of grey-green to show the color of her lifemate, Lysseth. The patch on the other shoulder identifies her as the leader of Thunderbolt Wing.

Evening chores have most likely begun, given the lack of people in the galleries, and the few there are scattered throughout, leaving large chunks of space open. And it's into this scene that a slightly built candidate makes her way up the short flight of stairs, pausing at the top to study those gathered before looking to find an empty spot to lean against in the front of the visiting rider. Satiet's elbows rest against the railing, the bulk of her frame leaned forward, but the cool words she speaks aren't directed to the eggs, and instead behind. "Strange place to come study, don't you think? Especially if you're not from here?" Her chin touches her shoulder lightly as she looks back towards the Telgari greenrider, gaze flicking briefly to the knot. "Reaches and Tillek's duties."

"Oh, I'm nay studying," Kassima answers without immediately looking up, shifting her position slightly; her boot heels rest on the tier in front of her to provide her with a better writing surface. "I'm sitting in dire ambush, lurking and awaiting m'chance t'strike out against m'prey. Only m'prey isn't here yet, so in the meanwhile, I'm writing a letter." She does raise her head after delivering this helpful explanation, looking towards the direction from which that voice came. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens. To Tillek and her Lady, too, if'n those be due. You're a Candidate?"

"Studying, writing letters. People seem to pick the oddest spots to do such sport here." Idle remarks from lazy lips. After giving the greenrider one last look over, the slender figure returns to focus on the eggs. "Lurking? Or meeting? If you're lurking, are the galleries that great of a place to lurk? You miss what goes on out in the bowl, or the comings and goings of residents, riders, and visitors." Satiet's finger lifts, a visible count starting, before it's interrupted by the last question. Her alto is tinged with dry amusement, "And here I thought the white twine they gave us was self-evident of that fact. Satiet." The last is said with clear politeness, a simple turn of her waist allowing her to introduce herself properly. "Here for the ride. And you?"

Kassima's brows twitch upwards. "I'm nigh afraid t'ask what other spots you've seen used," she quips. "If'n you've found people writing letters in the necessaries, please don't tell me about it. You'd have the right of it if'n 'tweren't lurking for the person that I am--" She points her charcoal stick towards the Sands; not the eggs, though, but rather the bronze sire guarding them. "Volath's a Telgar dragon, and his rider a friend of mine. 'Tis him I'm here t'see. So I figure m'odds of ambushing him are at least fair t'middling here, and I'm out of the way of most people doing their business." No mention of the white twine, although amusement of a droller sort lurks in her green eyes. "Kassima," she introduces in turn, indicating herself. "Green Lysseth's rider, here t'see a person or three. A pleasure t'be making your acquaintance, I'm sure."

"V'lano. You're looking for V'lano." The statement is simple and the look of dry amusement deepens, curving Satiet's lips into an almost heartfelt smile. "He's not bad looking, but for so many people to be looking for him... there must be some secret to his charms I've missed?" A self-assured touch graces her grin, blue eyes narrowing on the greenrider with more interest. "I confess, the mechanics of how dragons communicate and for what purpose are still out of my grasp, but isn't it easier to have your dragon, Lysseth was it? To have her ask him out there," a chin jerk to indicate the bronze, "For where his rider is? Convoluted. Perhaps it's better to just sit and wait in the end." The girl shrugs, a pivot of her feet realigning legs with torso, which allows her to hop over the first set of seats and settle into the second tier beneath Kassima. "I've found, when people need things done, they'll do it just about anywhere, but no more on the latrines or what goes on there. You're from Telgar, then? I've never left this area. Nay, I've never left the Tillek area until now. And, ma'am, the pleasure is entirely mine." Silken words, from an angelic looking face.

M'rek strides up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.
M'rek has arrived.

"Aye; or waiting for him, more than actively seeking. Have many others been searching for him? From Telgar, or...?" Kassima seems not particularly concerned by this news, but rather curious. Black brows jump upwards just that much more. "Many and myriad are his charms. I'll resist any urge to expound further until he's present, so that I might see him blush t'hear. As to that--you're essentially correct, always assuming I could be talking Her Magnificence out of exchanging sweet naughts with Volath long enough t'communicate aught of *substance*." The faint and muffled sound of a dragon's indignant snort might be audible from outside. "I did have her ask, and so I know he's preoccupied for the moment. But he might nay be preoccupied forever." She moves her boots off the tier when Satiet seats herself, tucking the charcoal stick away into her pocket and folding the hide for good measure. "Nay originally. Greystones and Benden are more m'original homes. I've seen Tillek, a'course--but please, Kassima or Kassi is fine. Never ma'am. The word gives me hives."

The galleries are sparsely populated, the beginning of evening chores giving some explanation for the lack of gawkers. Near the center of the stands, Satiet is seated in the second tier, shifted enough to allow her to look up at the higher placed Kassima. "Perhaps he's preoccupied with attending to the weyrwoman, though I've heard he's only allowed the hospitality of the guest weyr. Poor boy." Pale blue eyes slant to the side to gaze towards the dark tunnel leading back to the bowl and a smirk lingers on her lips. "Magnificence, she requires you to call her that? How.. droll. And of course, Kassima, it wouldn't do to give you hives, would it?" The inflection of her speech is a healthy mix of sarcasm and teasing that it's hard to place whether or not she's truly just joking.

M'rek staggers just a little bit as he makes the entrance to the galleries and he pauses, leaning into the stone of the wall to settle up with his usual sense of balance and pay the check that whatever he's been drinking has made due. There's a slight flush to his face and his eyes are bright but he does seem able to get himself under better control and so he makes the stroll down the steps in an easy fashion and his intoxicated state is only further revealed by that soft undertone of chuckle that travels with him. If he's sneaking up on the Telgari rider and/or candidate, he's doing a poor job. If he wants them to know he's approaching, well that..he's doing very well. "Good evening to you, ladies." He pauses a few steps above Kassima and gives a flourishing bow that ends with him upright once more and smirking to beat the devil. "Looks to be a pleasant one." If he caught any of the preceding conversation, he doesn't indicate it.

This commentary only amuses Kassima further, if anything. The greenrider smiles quite brightly indeed, and assures, "He's making do quite well with that guest weyr. Although 'twill have t'be admitting that *'tis* a bit on the small side. From what I've heard, R'sel's more likely t'be attending t'Josilina--" Her train of thought and indeed her conversation is interrupted by the arrival of M'rek. Perhaps Lysseth warned her. More likely, the chuckle did. Swivelling about on the bench, she observes, "*You* look... well-pickled; do tell me you brought some of the culprit t'share? G'deve right back t'you. But I'm nay going t'try and do such a bow as that in return; I'd never manage. What, oh what have you gotten into now?" Only with these pressing questions asked does she turn back to Satiet to inform, "She *likes* me t'call her that. I indulge or nay depending on how much I currently feel inclined t'poke her in the eye. I'd certainly say 'twouldn't; but then, who'd say else, unless they had some sort of fetish for watching people scratch?" Her delivery is on the deadpan side.

As she's facing the greenrider, keen eyes are first to spy the bronzerider, rather than being drawn to his arrival by the noises of his less than sneaky entrance. With interest, she watches his progress, the smirk shifting to a look of bemusement. "When he's in his cups, he's in his cups," is muttered, though due regard is given towards Kassima's continued talk. "So I've heard. They've no attachment towards each other, a fact, I've gathered, is typical of flight pairings in most riders? Riding, the Weyrs, seem to be, in varied degrees, all about indulgence. Indulging riders, the dragons, people. Here there. Scratch?" To M'rek, the pale blue eyes go to rest, eyebrows arced gracefully, "It'll only be pleasant if you share. It's never gentlemanly to show off the effects of what you have, and not give us a nip." She pauses, her grin twisting wickedly, "Though, attributing gentleman-like qualities to you would be rather stupid of me."

M'rek takes another step down, pauses a moment for another of those telling chuckles and then he takes a farther step down and moves in to plop down upon a bench one level above the Telgari. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a flask from an inner pocket and he offers it towards the greenrider with a nod then towards the candidate, for M'rek has no limits towards neither corrupting nor corruption, or at least it would seem, "The ignoble batch 21 from still number 4, brewed up only two days before and allowed to age as such until this afternoon and then she was given her coming out party. L'vor, a'course, could only drink two and that leaves me to finish her off right. I think you'll find that she's rough at first taste but surprisingly smooth on the downtake. Just something to drown all thoughts of..nobility." He props his boots then up on the lower tier and laughs, "Aye, lass. Satiet that is. Don't be attributing any such qualities to me these days unless you intend to meet me at daybreak with a length of blade to finish me off."

"And amusing cups they are, too," Kassi murmurs in exchange, with some fondness for the subject. "Typical, although nay always true. A flight can occasionally lead somewhere or just speed things along. But most times, 'tis only a necessity of dragonriding--I don't think I'd quite agree with that statement." Dryly said. "We indulge and serve the dragons, 'twill grant that. Howso people? Scratch, scratching: a natural result of having hives." Glancing between M'rek and Satiet, she adds to the latter, "You might be surprised. I've seen him act with all the polish and grace one could wish from a gentleman... albeit only on one occasion. M'rek, M'rek, I thought 'twas ahead of her in the line t'be killing you?" Not that such potential disappointments can distract her from drinking the flask. Wise woman: she hears him out before opening it, and so has some idea of what to expect from the long pull she takes; she thus only coughs twice, careful to swallow first and waste nothing. "Mmm." A second swallow, as trial. "Should do the trick. Why are we drowning thoughts of nobility today?" She holds the flask out in offering to Satiet as she asks this.

Rachiel walks up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.
Rachiel has arrived.

"That, sir, can be arranged. I'm handy with a knife, though more so to fish scales than the skin of man. But with you, it's hardly a difference I suspect." Satiet responds tartly, a look of indulgence spared for the tipsy rider. Her hand reaches for the offered flask, and narrowed eyes inspect the contents through the tiny circle of vision allowed by the top. "Your brew? Rotgut then?" Cynicism pulls up one corner of her lips as she sniffs the rim before taking a short pull, followed by one choked cough and soft breath against the back of her hand. Quick to regain her bearings, and after taking up another, longer pull from the flask, she smiles at the greenrider, "Tis the Interval, the Weyrs are indulged in favor of a day when Thread will fall again. That's how with people. Dragon indulgence, rider indulgence."

M'rek watches Kassima drink with those alcohol bright eyes of his and then he laughs and leans back to rest his elbows on the seat behind him so that he's fairly reclined now, "Flights, huh?" all he seems to have to say on that and then he laughs again, "Aye, I can play that part, I suppose. Not as much fun though, unless of course there are feet as nice as there were that night under the Bitran table." A wink from the bronzerider that's followed by, "Aye, Kassi-love, you're well ahead of many in line to put Pern from the misery of my bungling hide." His voice gets drier then and Kassi knows him well enough to see the rawness he must be drinking to dull these days, "And maybe it should be done sooner rather than later before I meddle again over my head." He watches the candidate drink and there's amusement in his eyes now as he reaches for the flask, "Aye. Rotgut. I have a friend at Ista and together we make it as a bit of a hobby. Another indulgence." A sharp bark of laughter then, "Indulgence. The weyrs aren't the only ones indulged. Not these days."

Kassima's eyebrows seem to get a lot of exercise around Satiet. The left one rises first this time, with the right soon to follow. "Such interesting rules the 'Reaches must have for Candidate behavior," she murmurs; not quite amused any longer, but closer to wry than censurious. "Interval 'tis, but 'indulgence' would seem t'imply we return naught in exchange for what we're given. Nay quite accurate. Threadfall is the core of what we do, but nay the whole." These words could easily sound pedantic, but Kassi says them amiably, conversationally, and without offense, then shifts her attention to M'rek once again. "She'd suggested V'lano might be attending Josilina," comes the amused explanation for flights. "M'rek-m'dear, you know full well there are always feet available for you. Just as you know 'twill make your death quick, should need be." It starts out a jest, but she trails it off with a quieter thoughtfulness and lifts green eyes to give him a more thorough scrutiny. "Only I happen t'think the world's better for having you alive. As would others I could name. Whatever you seem t'think you're t'blame for--and you're right. We aren't. Holds, too, I'm guessing you mean."

"Rules, greenrider, are there as.. guidelines. I'm not breaking any of them currently." Satiet's fingers curl around the flask possessively, daring to take another sip before her arm reaches out in slow reluctance to pass it over to its owner. Only the soft flush along her neck indicates the drink's effects, a side effect easily passed off with any number of explanations. "I said he was attending to the weyrwoman's needs. I didn't specify as a mate. She had thoughts of painting the eggs. He seemed.. helpless," is her uncertain assessment of the sire's rider. But subjects move forward, as does the girl's own line of thinking, and she shrugs, gesturing towards the flask, "It's good enough, serves its purpose if it's purpose is to get rip-roaring drunk in as little time as possible." What she perceives as flirtation is given her own set of raised eyebrows, gaze skittering from bronze to greenrider curiously, a thoughtful turn to her lips. "The larger Holds require indulgence. Would it be wrong to say that Pern is, at its core, a very indulgent society? Working on those beneath the structure of titles."

M'rek has almost rested his chin to his chest when Kassi's words make him snort and he lifts his head once more, "Josilina loves R'sel, and for her. Well. Love and attendance are not mutually exclusive. I wouldn't be looking for V'lano, good lad that he is, on Josilina's ledge in any sort of a permanent sense. Duties of flight, and so forth, but I doubt anything more. We aren't all without restraint, after all, and Jos is of the hold bred sort. Though, aye. She might enlist him to help liven up the hues of the eggs." Then, "Aye, Kassi-darling, she can drink, just not too the point that I would and will." A wolfish grin covers his mouth now and he laughs, "Oh. I'm well to blame this time, was all my idea. Such a clever idea." He shrugs his shoulders then, "Big stakes mean big losses." spoken as if he's quoting someone and then he looks to the candidate and reaches forward only to take up the flask and get a pull that makes him shudder for all that it's his creation. He sets the flask on the bench so that the others can get to it again if they so desire. M'rek breathes, and therefore he flirts. "You're too kind to me, Kassima. You should be giving me Oblivion." There's laughter at what must be a joke of some kind then he carries on, "Aye. And some of the larger holds crave more indulgence than others, and get it too. Burning away all that stand in their way. Mayhaps it won't be too long before it won't be seen so much as indulgence in keeping the weyrs, even without thread, if other things are allowed to sear away the greenery and flesh of pern with such impunity." M'rek raises his eyebrows then and laughs, "I sound like a raving lunatic. I should either finish off the flask or make my way to a pub for the duration of the night."

"On this 'twill take your word, or M'rek's; I know Telgar's rules only. Nay those of High Reaches." Kassi watches the passing of the flask with almost wistful eyes. "Ah, well, that I can believe. Far from helpless is Vel, but he's nay so long out of the Weyrling Barracks himself--I do nay believe he's been confronted with the need t'protect eggs from paint a'fore." Quite as if this is an ordinary riding hazard. "Indulgent, I don't know. I'd say self-interested. As any society comprised of people surely must be. Holds indulge the Weyrs in the interest of having lands left t'Hold when the Pass comes around again, as well as transport and aid in other things; Weyrs indulge Holds and Crafts t'receive the benefit of the tithe; Crafts indulge both in order t'have custom. Though things like gratitude and artistry and wanting t'do the right thing come into it too." M'rek's words receive a satisfied nod: that's what she thought. "Vel isn't with her," she agrees simply. "We've spoken of it." As well they might have done, given that the greenrider's spent more than one evening at the 'Reaches since Volath became Sands-bound. "Oh, I meant more in how she was talking t'you. But it doesn't seem you mind. Are you of a mind t'speak of your clever idea?" Casual curiosity; he might, sloshed as he is, miss the current of concern beneath it, or not. As for herself, whether she flirts or simply teases her friend might be in the eye of the beholder. "I haven't Oblivion with me, but I could conjure it, so long as you had Rebirth with which t'be following it. Assuming 'tweren't too unconscious after." Whatever amusement remained vanishes into seriousness entire. "You think Weyr attention might be needed soon?" Quietly asked. Then, "If'n you decide the latter and would like an ear t'rave in, I'm sure I can ambush Vel another evening. But you're welcome t'stay too for all of me. You don't sound half as lunatic as I might wish, with some of that."

"The Lords are allowed those rights. Holding is autonomous of the Weyrs." The words of a small time hold girl is at odds with the shadowed look offered her companions - inquisitive and intent on discerning. As most of the conversation begins to skirt over her head, Satiet makes eyes at the flask, the greenrider's wistful expression matched by her own, but instead her alto lifts to reply to Kassima's words. "I don't disrespect the rider. But I'd say my brand of respect for him is a notch higher than the simpering of most other candidates. For him," she pauses to peer towards M'rek, "At least. It wouldn't do to be so respectful of .. other riders such as Semirath's." Her sun-dark face pales underneath, an uptilt of her head pulling the dark locks out of her eyes, studious silence ensuing on her part.

Rachiel walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl.
Rachiel has left.

M'rek moves his legs so that the heel of one boot rests over the toe of the other and he leans back to his elbows once more, "Oh. That." In regards to the way Satiet speaks to him, he shrugs, "I'd rather have scorn or amusement then some false accord. I'm not looking to be coddled these days. Such as Semirath's, huh?" He regards the candidate in question through eyes half slanted closed and then laughs in such a hollow tone that it might be unsettling to those who really do know him before he shifts that look over to Kassima, "I meddled in His affairs." He shakes his head now, "Meddled and another paid the final price for it. As well as losing, well..." He pauses and says with what could be frustrating vagueness, "An important link in the chain was lost." He shrugs as if this summary will at least indicate something and then he smiles, "I'll not keep you from V'lano. I can find Oblivion and even Rebirth any other night, this bender seems to be unending after all." Maybe because he hasn't gone seeking help to end it. "Aye. We'll all be needed soon enough. Unless of course folk decide they want to see half the northern continent all under one bloodied crest. Ah. Enough politics for me, makes me melancholy when I've been drink so much for so long. Sharding Lord holders."

Kassima's agreement comes distant, preoccupied with thought. "To a large degree. Assuming there's nay shorting of tithe... or other breaking of covenants. 'Tis the Conclave which handles Holds thus, you're right." Drawn slightly out of whatever reverie caught her, she flicks Satiet a half-grin. "Ah, well. That sort of respect. 'Tis an oddity, how often I hear such things of Semirath's." And that's outright bland, as if to hide some emotion--amusement? Possibly. If so, none of it remains in the look she flicks to the bronzerider. "M'rek...." She's a loss, though, for what else to say to express her worry, or what exactly to ask. "Final price." She repeats this softly. After a moment, cautious, "I've been recently t'Beastcraft. Matters there seem well." Well, that made sense. "Vel, believe me, sees me plenty. Even if'n Volath's told him we're visiting--Faranth only knows about that--he'd understand wanting t'hear out a friend, I should think; but that's your call, and the offer's open whenever. I wonder whether the Holds would cry autonomy should that occur." Muttered. Then, "We could speak of something else?"

A charming smile is allowed the riders at their varied reactions to her statement of respect, made flat by the blankness of her eyes. The smile, however, serves to alleviate the girl's sharp features, and with a quiet murmur of indiscernible words, she turns to direct her attention to the sands. For all she's silent and seemingly distracted, Satiet's head tilts just so to afford her the vantage of hearing the conversation between the riders, and allows her to mull over the words of M'rek's loose tongue without the study of others. So when the comment of bloodied crests arises, followed by Kassima's answer, the startled paleness that penetrates beneath her tan is most likely invisible to those behind her. In all likeliness, she'll sit till she's heard the end, but the greenrider's request of a change in subject is met with a lightly intoned remark, "If Oblivion and Rebirth are drinks, I'd like to add them to my request. Sir. With the knowledge that the chore you require may be expanded upon."

M'rek does have a loose tongue. Or. At least he had one once upon a time, in such a convenient sort of spreading of information fashion, and maybe it's a bit of the old Merek that reaches again for the flask and drinks deeply before he looks so very thoughtful, as if he really is considering spilling that one particular slice of the ongoing drama that has him a sodden drunk so many nights in a row. "Aye. Oblivion and Rebirth are drinks. Only really Kassi can make the first. Though. I can give it a solid try if we have all the ingredients. But. It's a one drink trip to drunk, and so it might be more than what you really want, Satiet. Hard to do chores, or anything really, when you can't move your limbs or open your eyes. Still. Maybe at some time. Arrangements could be made." Really, does M'rek have no regards at all for rules these days? He drinks once more and the passes the flask to Kassima, "Better have another one. I've not even told the Harper what's happened yet." Oddly enough, it would even seem that M'rek's been avoiding the Harperhall of late and all who reside there. "Did you ever meet one of Vorlin's potential brides, one of The Flock, by the name of Kasedy?" He seems to be asking Kassima but he's not excluding Satiet from the conversation either, which may bode well or ill for the candidate, depending upon her temperament and what she might do with any knowledge gained.

Kassima takes a turn at being somewhat out of the loop, slanting an inquisitive glance between Candidate and bronzerider at this latest comment by the former. "I could possibly be convinced t'mix Oblivion, for a good cause." Pause. "Getting drunk off one's mind is a good cause. But--aye, that, 'tisn't a drink for having unless or until you *can* get drunk. So 'twould only make it once rules nay longer bound." There is a brief flicker of exasperation in the glance she gives M'rek, but the wry grin that curves her mouth is real. It broadens for the flask, which she gladly accepts. "Rodric hasn't mentioned being particularly concerned about you of late," she agrees, mild again, "so I could guess he hasn't seen you--always assuming a'course that he would speak of such t'me. Thankee." She helps herself to a swallow of the rotgut, and a swipe of the back of her wrist at one watering eye after. "Kasedy--oh, aye. The one with an accent nigh as thick as mine. Daughter of the Bitran and Keroon lines, aye?" She likewise addresses this to both, so that perhaps it's more clarification for Satiet than true inquiry. Under her breath to M'rek, "Are you going t'be inviting death again by talking about this?"

"I'm as good a cause as any. And rules, rules," Satiet manages to venture a lopsided smirk. "Rules only matter if you get caught, as someone was so nice to point out to me." As to who this is, the downward cast of feigned demureness gives no indication. Her expression stills in that mix of demure and smirk, the melt it takes of fading into a more neutral look slow and a bit displaced. "Vorlin is...?" the question trails off, brows peaked upwards in inquiry. Not one to confess ignorance unless pressed, the girl looks back again, glancing from Telgari to High Reaches rider.

M'rek snorts a little bit as Kassima mentions the Harper by name, "Aye. I doubt as much. He's busy with other interests while.." He halts then just as a rather surprising amount of anger seems to creep into his voice and M'rek actually seems to bite at his tongue before he runs one hand over his shaved head and gets his, albeit intoxicated self, in more check. "The Master of Harper's is not like to be worried about me these days. There are too many other things going on, I'm sure. And after all, I can take care of myself." Ha. So it would seem. He's taking perfectly good care of his liver. He looks to Satiet and raises one eyebrow before he supplies the answer, "Lord Vorlin. Him. Lord of Bitra." That guy that some circles frequently talk about without ever actually saying His name. "Keroon Hold recently changed hands. Almost was Kasedy's. Fake accent and all. Anyway. She's dead now." Now M'rek is deadpan in delivery. "So close. So sharding close."

"True in a sense, but 'twould advise caution in whom you discuss the breaking of rules around," suggests Kassi with dry humor. "Nay that I'm of a mind t'tattle, so long as we're--as far as I know--speaking hypothetically. Telgar this isn't. And Vorlin is the current Lord Bitra." M'rek's anger gets the biggest jump of eyebrows tonight--surprise bordering on startlement, followed by... what? Her expression becomes difficult to read, beyond being a bit still. "Given givens, I feel a sudden compulsion t'be apologizing," she finally says, neutral-voiced. "Yet if'n you haven't spoken with him recently, how can you be sure? I can swear t'you that he worries for you. He speaks of you often. I believe he counts you of great import." She lets it lie there, at least for now, with a last skeptical glance before that path is forgotten in the wake of a new startlement and cause for still posture, widened eyes. "She's dead." It doesn't manage to be a question. "Since when?"

M'rek's reaction is observed, as per norm, Satiet's lips twisting into a set that's neither thoughtful or amused. What seems to be the final straw for her, at least after the trace, tightened smile cast towards Kassima for her words of advice, is the bronzerider's continuation of, to her, ill-advised remarks. The news of Kasedy's death is met with widened eyes that quickly narrow down into calculating slits. "I'll have to come find you for your wares later, sir. Ma'am." Her rise from the bench is languid, the tilt of her chin that of leisure as if they'd been speaking of the weather, the eggs, or the state of klah at the Reaches. The final title is punctuated by a small, knowing smile for Kassima, and the last comment is tossed towards M'rek, "You ride with crowds far above a poor holder's head. And here I thought you a simple drunk and brawler. I'll seek you out next time, sir. Good evening." Without awaiting a reply, hands shove into her pockets and a whistle, if a trifle forced, precedes her out the exit.

You walk down a short flight of steps and head out through the entrance to the bowl.

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek sits a row above Kassima and watches Satiet leave with eyes that are unreadable in such a fashion that he could actually be up to something. Or not. Never can tell with this wreck of a bronzerider. "I am a simple drunk and brawler. Sometimes." His attention goes back to Kassi and he looks still blank of feature a moment before he says dryly, "That's like the ale apologizing for my general state of being." The words roll right off his tongue even though he's likely too drunk to walk smoothely from the gallery at the moment. "Aye. She's dead. Since a couple of months ago." Coincidentally when M'rek started to spend every free moment with the scent of alcohol on his breath. "Just haven't told anyone before now."

From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel stands aside as the candidate moves past him on his way in. His mug held high enough the girl can pass under it before he continues up the steps with a bemused comment to her back of, "Was it something I said?" He shakes his head as he moves farther into the galleries and starts to lift a hand in greeting, the one not already occupied, "Good eve, M'rek, m'lady. Reaches Duties."

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima comments in Satiet's wake, "I told her nay t'call me that." By the ruefulness, however, it's not as if she's really expecting the woman to care. "Is that one really a Candidate? I'd swear she's up to or after something from the look of her. But she didn't know who Vorlin was? Bizarre." Her dark green eyes are thoughtful as she casts them back up to the bronzerider, and narrow in yet more thought at that expression. "Nay often enough for your peace of mind," she mutters. "I suppose so; but if'n ale could think, it might choose nay t'slosh you, mightn't it, if'n it meant causing damage elsewhere. Nay that I'm certain I'm sorry since I still think you may be wronging him. That long and it hasn't gotten out?" Surprise again, unsurprisingly. "Because of Keroon, or...?" She's pulled away from this conversation--held, on her end, just barely above a murmur, in a last attempt at discretion--by R'sel's greeting, and turns about to offer a wave. "More like something we said, I shouldn't wonder," she calls. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens; I don't know what lady you might be addressing, though. 'Tis nay, I fear, a word that can really be used t'describe me, whatever Vel says."

From the sands> In the galleries, "Maybe she's one of His. Wouldn't be the first time He's managed to put one here." Obviously. M'rek shrugs and then says, "I like her." For whatever that's worth. "Aye. Not nearly enough, though I'm making up for lost time lately. Only missing a really good brawl to finish me off, I think. Maybe. Well. Someone will turn up for that. I'm thinking I'm going to make arrangements with a certain someone in particular and we can sell tickets. Maybe I'll even train a little for it." He certainly wouldn't seem up to fighting Gerome in this condition, that's for sure, certainly after the way they nearly did kill each other last time. "Aye." He nods, "Likely I am wronging him. But I'm just saying. Well. I know which poison has me by the groin and I don't let it keep me from..well." He settles back, "I do what I do regardless. Shards. Listen to me. Like it matters." Even he seems unsure for the root of his anger there. A nod comes for the brownrider, "R'sel." and then, "No body for it to get out." Oh M'rek. Such a busy lad. "Aye. Because of Keroon. It was..well. I meddled." As R'sel arrives, M'rek falls broodingly quiet.

From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel takes his time to look out over the sands a minute or two, then flashes a grin at the visiting rider, "R'sel, brown Svraoth's. And trust me, its an old habit m'lady, that many have tried to break me of." A glance back the way he came and then he chuckles, "Just my timing then." As he catches a word or two of the other and makes his guess, he waves a hand, "Don't worry M'rek. A little fish told me to stay out of that pond. And you know how it goes when they have their say. I can't break my word, until she breaks hers, or some such." Doesn't keep him from looking at least mildly curious though, despite his words.

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima snorts with abrupt, dark-edged humor. "Don't be silly," she says. "She wasn't wearing ridiculous boots. I might admittedly have liked her better if'n she hadn't seemed out t'make me think V'lano and Josilina had a thing going a'fore you got here. She doesn't even know me; why would she do that?" She sounds less bewildered, however, than slightly tired. "Mayhaps a group brawling trip would be more the thing?" she tentatively suggests. "Work off the steam *without* getting killed? I'm nay of a mind t'let you get killed. Just so you know. Whatever you think you've done. You didn't do it t'her yourself." Complete certainty in her voice there; it would ring, but quiet voices don't really allow for ringing. Her eyebrows do their jumping routine again. She doesn't seem to know whether to laugh or be vaguely affronted. "Poison. Faranth. She'd probably love t'hear you call her *that*. You should talk t'him--see what he says, and tell him besides; he'll surely have t'know. I shouldn't ask what happened to the body, should I. Talk about questions I never foresaw m'self asking. Did you try and put her up for it?" She summons a grin for R'sel, wry but genuine, and says, "There are worse habits t'be having, come to that. Kassima, green Lysseth's, and Kassima or Kassi are just fine." Puzzlement replaces her wan humor though: "Fish? Pond?"

From the sands> In the galleries, "Boots." M'rek stills a moment, brow furrowed as he seems to be considering something he hasn't let him think about yet. "No idea why she'd want you to think that, or even what good or ill it would do. Still. Sometimes there's just no telling." M'rek's all driving addiction to politics just can't let that topic slide by without just a little speculation and then he nods, "Aye. Perhaps. Or. Perhaps I should be considering that which I previously would not have allowed myself to consider." Vague enough for ya? He rubs a hand over his head and then listens before saying, "Aye, and I appreciate the sentiment, Kassima. Well. I didn't actually do the killing this time, but I might as well have. All or nothing. Everything seems to be so all or nothing when that 'pond' is concerned." He nods to R'sel, "Jos knows what she's talking about. Best to stay out of Bitran matters all together." As if M'rek would or will keep out himself. "Aye. You could say that. I arranged a path to circumvent an alliance with Him that would result in..well. It's a long story all together. And. Well, this is just how it ended. Her dead. And me knowing it was her instead of me." Lord Vorlin does seem to enjoy keeping M'rek alive even when he seems quick enough to finish others off. "You two don't know each other? You should. And now I suppose you do."

From the sands> In the galleries, Both shaggy brows lift towards R'sel's brow line and he looks again to the bowl, "She thought Jos what?" Then a sly grin, "Shards. What a rumor to start. It'd take more than catching her dragon and a clutch on the sands to open that door with Jos. I should know. Took me turns to get her to take notice of what was there all along." He shakes his head, "Might be amusing to see her try and suggest that one in front of Josilina." He only listens to the next part, at least to a point, then glances to M'rek, "Just tell me not your charge, or I can think of a pair of sisters that should be forewarned and standing by for her sister." He pauses to nods again Kassima's way, "There are worse, but this one's been enough to earn me a slap or two along the way. Not that it's so easy to give up." Especially if you don't try? "I'll stay out if she doesn't give me reason to go dragging her out. She's of a mind that she doesn't have to heed her own advice and promise me exactly the same in return." The brownrider dips a shoulder, then shakes his head. "Never formally met before. Just had m'lady pointed out in passing on one of my...trips to Telgar."

From the sands> In the galleries, "The unkind part of me," Kassima remarks, sardonically amused now, "has plenty of theories and each snarkier than the last, but--nay harm done, since I know better, and methinks in the long term I could come t'like her too. Depending. Still think she's up t'something. Tell me, M'rek: did I kill m'Wingriders, when I led 'em into Fall and Thread took them? If'n so, you'd better pass all your alcohol on over. I may just have more deaths on m'head than you. I worry what it may be that you haven't previously permitted yourself t'consider, that you'd consider now." Her concern is certainly real, but doesn't stop her from giving him another narrow, thoughtful look, nor speculating, "Some sort of power alliance between Bitra and Keroon? Or... but why would it be you, then? Unless you're Keroon's secret heir. I've heard his name, a'course," she adds, turning back to R'sel with a smile that for some reason is on the wry side. "But I'd never formally had the pleasure. And pleasure 'tis, I'm sure. Isn't it absurd? I won't deny I thought of it too, at first, and asked, but if'n she's been here then she should know--" She flashes another grin, this one warmer with humor. "If'n she does, I'd be appreciative if'n someone could pass on the tale of the reaction t'me. It sounds entertaining. The lady at the Beastcraft," even though the question of sorts wasn't directed to her, "was well when I saw her last, nay long ago. Well, I promise nay t'slap you, how's that? I'd rather be a lady than a ma'am for all that I'm nay truly either."

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek is quick to shake his head, "Nay, not my charge. At least I've still never lost one of those. Young lord Cain will be a turn old tomorrow." As if this were of interest at this point. "All seems well enough along those lines, and Cailin's not had a hair on her head hurt. Was one of the Flock." M'rek clears off the tip of that iceburg and then looks to Kassima with interest, "Perhaps. But. It wasn't your hand that put them to impression or into your wing. You don't pluck them from the safe life of crafter and make them into something. Well." He pauses and then says, "In some ways I guess you can say I've become as bad as Him. Meddling in lives and making plans." Or attempting to break plans, it would seem, "Aye, an alliance between Bitran and Keroon. Nay, I'm not a secret heir." At least not on today's episode anyway. He listens to the talk about Jos and V'lano then and yet, he doesn't look as if he's really listening. It seems more like he's thinking dangerous thoughts and that's what brings him to his feet, steady enough for all the rotgut that's been poured into him tonight. "I have to go see someone. Kassi. See you around soon, maybe even for a full story. Say hello to that Harper for me when next you run into him. R'sel. Always good to see you."

From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel just grins a bit wider as he agrees, "Ah, well. If I see it. I'll be glad to pass along the tale. I'm sure it will rank right up there with telling her she's wearing orange or grey." He gives a little bow for that, "And a pleasure to meet you too m'lady, properly that is. And if I might be so bold. I've always thought lady the more polite term to use if one has the option to choose." There's a nod as he adds the impute, "Not everything can be your fault, M'rek." But he refrains from more as a look of relief crosses his features, "Ahh good. Not something I was wanting to tell Jos. I think she's still half for kidnapping the pair of them." Anything more keeps as he nods, "Always good to see you as well, M'rek."

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima gives M'rek a keen look. "You speak true, but wouldn't it be the blood that makes any of the Flock what they are? That's born, that's nay made. And you're too young t'have done her siring. Recall too that if'n nay anyone meddled for good now and then, 'twould leave the field clear for those with ill intent t'do whatever they willed." She reaches up to attempt to catch one of his hands and squeeze it, if she can, a gesture of friendship and worry; should she catch, she lets go readily enough when he stands. "Aye. Give a yell if'n you ever feel like talking; 'twill bring the liquor. I'll do that. You take care of yourself, all right?" She nods to R'sel then, with a halfhearted chuckle. "Oh, the fireworks that'd happen if'n you did *that*. I've only really run into the lady a time or two, and I can be imagining. I'm nay going t'disagree with you on terms. Ma'am makes me feel old. Or worse yet, respectable."

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek has his hand caught by Kassima's as he gets to his feet and he looks surprised and perhaps even more before he nods to her and then to R'sel as well for some of his words, "Aye. I suppose I can't claim responsability for all of it. Still. It's a dire setback, and I'm not liking the ramifications I see." He moves his head then, stretching his neck as if he's reading for a fight, and yet, all he says is, "Aye. I'll take care. I'll be around." Clearly he's ready to get this particular burden off his chest." He squeezes the greenrider's hand back and then nods before he scoops up his flask and makes his way out, careful of the steps in his condition.

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl.
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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
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Logs:Who Needs Murder When You Have Whiskey?

2014-11-22T04:53:21Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Kassima, M'rek, Satiet |what= |where= |when=day 21, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.23 |quote="And politics are naught for the weak-willed or dispiri..."

{{Log
|who=Kassima, M'rek, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 21, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.23
|quote="And politics are naught for the weak-willed or dispirited. I suppose" her expression hovers on sardonic, "It bodes well that M'rek is so interested, as yourself, for you seem a lady of wit and charm."
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 18:46 on day 21, month 8, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer evening.

You meander through the tunnel, emerging in an enormous cavern. You walk up a short flight of steps into the galleries.
In the Galleries of the High Reaches Weyr Hatching Grounds(#510RJas$)
Tiers of stone carved benches rise uniformly above the hatching sands, set against both the southern and western walls of the enormous hatching grounds. The warmth radiating from the sands make the cool stone benches a welcome change, especially for sand baked feet. One section of the galleries has been roped off for special spectators, and the seats within have cushions done in the dark blue and black of the Weyr. To the east, the cavern narrows and short flights of steps lead down to the cavern entrance or to the sands themselves. From the galleries, the many dragon ledges are visible, scattered all along the hatching cavern walls.

The cavern which has stood empty for so long now fills with visitors and weyrfolk, dragons and firelizards, all come to get the first glimpses of the gleaming flaccid eggs as the Queen lays them.
To see things down on the sands, you can 'view', or to see a specific object you can 'view <object>'. +viewhelp gives you egg specific viewing help.
Contents:
Kassima
VIP Hospitality Table
Obvious exits:
SAnds Bowl

It might be a slightly odd thing, that someone would come to the Hatching Grounds--to a foreign Hatching Grounds, no less--and seem to be paying so little attention to the eggs. Kassima isn't regarding the clutch at all, at least not at this moment. In the seat she's chosen a few tiers up from the sands, she's writing something on scraped hide, which along with a leather-bound book is propped against her legs.

Kassima
Kassima is a woman gifted magnanimously by genetics: one would likely guess her to be younger than her actual age thanks in part to high cheekbones and a brow lines dare not touch, and metabolism and height have both dealt a good hand in her slender 5'10" build. Her fine-boned features are framed by a black river braided and confined, allowed free only in the wayward forelock; there, it threatens to dangle into canted eyes the color of emeralds in shadow. A shrewd glint lightens these even when mirth does not, and the well-shaped brows above lend eloquence through their mobility.

Kassi seems to be in excellent health and condition. She is strong and fit, with enough tan to suggest time spent in warm climes recently; shadows may sometimes ring her eyes, but they shine for all of that. She currently wears a wine red blouse and black slacks that have become careworn in their Turns-long service. Two pouches and a long dagger hang from her ornamented belt; the glints of metal at her fingers (+detail available) suggest that she likes jewelry.

On one shoulder of her exquisitely crafted riding jacket is the black and white knot of a Telgar Wingleader, with a thin cord of red to honor her Benden Weyr origins and a strand of grey-green to show the color of her lifemate, Lysseth. The patch on the other shoulder identifies her as the leader of Thunderbolt Wing.

Evening chores have most likely begun, given the lack of people in the galleries, and the few there are scattered throughout, leaving large chunks of space open. And it's into this scene that a slightly built candidate makes her way up the short flight of stairs, pausing at the top to study those gathered before looking to find an empty spot to lean against in the front of the visiting rider. Satiet's elbows rest against the railing, the bulk of her frame leaned forward, but the cool words she speaks aren't directed to the eggs, and instead behind. "Strange place to come study, don't you think? Especially if you're not from here?" Her chin touches her shoulder lightly as she looks back towards the Telgari greenrider, gaze flicking briefly to the knot. "Reaches and Tillek's duties."

"Oh, I'm nay studying," Kassima answers without immediately looking up, shifting her position slightly; her boot heels rest on the tier in front of her to provide her with a better writing surface. "I'm sitting in dire ambush, lurking and awaiting m'chance t'strike out against m'prey. Only m'prey isn't here yet, so in the meanwhile, I'm writing a letter." She does raise her head after delivering this helpful explanation, looking towards the direction from which that voice came. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens. To Tillek and her Lady, too, if'n those be due. You're a Candidate?"

"Studying, writing letters. People seem to pick the oddest spots to do such sport here." Idle remarks from lazy lips. After giving the greenrider one last look over, the slender figure returns to focus on the eggs. "Lurking? Or meeting? If you're lurking, are the galleries that great of a place to lurk? You miss what goes on out in the bowl, or the comings and goings of residents, riders, and visitors." Satiet's finger lifts, a visible count starting, before it's interrupted by the last question. Her alto is tinged with dry amusement, "And here I thought the white twine they gave us was self-evident of that fact. Satiet." The last is said with clear politeness, a simple turn of her waist allowing her to introduce herself properly. "Here for the ride. And you?"

Kassima's brows twitch upwards. "I'm nigh afraid t'ask what other spots you've seen used," she quips. "If'n you've found people writing letters in the necessaries, please don't tell me about it. You'd have the right of it if'n 'tweren't lurking for the person that I am--" She points her charcoal stick towards the Sands; not the eggs, though, but rather the bronze sire guarding them. "Volath's a Telgar dragon, and his rider a friend of mine. 'Tis him I'm here t'see. So I figure m'odds of ambushing him are at least fair t'middling here, and I'm out of the way of most people doing their business." No mention of the white twine, although amusement of a droller sort lurks in her green eyes. "Kassima," she introduces in turn, indicating herself. "Green Lysseth's rider, here t'see a person or three. A pleasure t'be making your acquaintance, I'm sure."

"V'lano. You're looking for V'lano." The statement is simple and the look of dry amusement deepens, curving Satiet's lips into an almost heartfelt smile. "He's not bad looking, but for so many people to be looking for him... there must be some secret to his charms I've missed?" A self-assured touch graces her grin, blue eyes narrowing on the greenrider with more interest. "I confess, the mechanics of how dragons communicate and for what purpose are still out of my grasp, but isn't it easier to have your dragon, Lysseth was it? To have her ask him out there," a chin jerk to indicate the bronze, "For where his rider is? Convoluted. Perhaps it's better to just sit and wait in the end." The girl shrugs, a pivot of her feet realigning legs with torso, which allows her to hop over the first set of seats and settle into the second tier beneath Kassima. "I've found, when people need things done, they'll do it just about anywhere, but no more on the latrines or what goes on there. You're from Telgar, then? I've never left this area. Nay, I've never left the Tillek area until now. And, ma'am, the pleasure is entirely mine." Silken words, from an angelic looking face.

M'rek strides up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.
M'rek has arrived.

"Aye; or waiting for him, more than actively seeking. Have many others been searching for him? From Telgar, or...?" Kassima seems not particularly concerned by this news, but rather curious. Black brows jump upwards just that much more. "Many and myriad are his charms. I'll resist any urge to expound further until he's present, so that I might see him blush t'hear. As to that--you're essentially correct, always assuming I could be talking Her Magnificence out of exchanging sweet naughts with Volath long enough t'communicate aught of *substance*." The faint and muffled sound of a dragon's indignant snort might be audible from outside. "I did have her ask, and so I know he's preoccupied for the moment. But he might nay be preoccupied forever." She moves her boots off the tier when Satiet seats herself, tucking the charcoal stick away into her pocket and folding the hide for good measure. "Nay originally. Greystones and Benden are more m'original homes. I've seen Tillek, a'course--but please, Kassima or Kassi is fine. Never ma'am. The word gives me hives."

The galleries are sparsely populated, the beginning of evening chores giving some explanation for the lack of gawkers. Near the center of the stands, Satiet is seated in the second tier, shifted enough to allow her to look up at the higher placed Kassima. "Perhaps he's preoccupied with attending to the weyrwoman, though I've heard he's only allowed the hospitality of the guest weyr. Poor boy." Pale blue eyes slant to the side to gaze towards the dark tunnel leading back to the bowl and a smirk lingers on her lips. "Magnificence, she requires you to call her that? How.. droll. And of course, Kassima, it wouldn't do to give you hives, would it?" The inflection of her speech is a healthy mix of sarcasm and teasing that it's hard to place whether or not she's truly just joking.

M'rek staggers just a little bit as he makes the entrance to the galleries and he pauses, leaning into the stone of the wall to settle up with his usual sense of balance and pay the check that whatever he's been drinking has made due. There's a slight flush to his face and his eyes are bright but he does seem able to get himself under better control and so he makes the stroll down the steps in an easy fashion and his intoxicated state is only further revealed by that soft undertone of chuckle that travels with him. If he's sneaking up on the Telgari rider and/or candidate, he's doing a poor job. If he wants them to know he's approaching, well that..he's doing very well. "Good evening to you, ladies." He pauses a few steps above Kassima and gives a flourishing bow that ends with him upright once more and smirking to beat the devil. "Looks to be a pleasant one." If he caught any of the preceding conversation, he doesn't indicate it.

This commentary only amuses Kassima further, if anything. The greenrider smiles quite brightly indeed, and assures, "He's making do quite well with that guest weyr. Although 'twill have t'be admitting that *'tis* a bit on the small side. From what I've heard, R'sel's more likely t'be attending t'Josilina--" Her train of thought and indeed her conversation is interrupted by the arrival of M'rek. Perhaps Lysseth warned her. More likely, the chuckle did. Swivelling about on the bench, she observes, "*You* look... well-pickled; do tell me you brought some of the culprit t'share? G'deve right back t'you. But I'm nay going t'try and do such a bow as that in return; I'd never manage. What, oh what have you gotten into now?" Only with these pressing questions asked does she turn back to Satiet to inform, "She *likes* me t'call her that. I indulge or nay depending on how much I currently feel inclined t'poke her in the eye. I'd certainly say 'twouldn't; but then, who'd say else, unless they had some sort of fetish for watching people scratch?" Her delivery is on the deadpan side.

As she's facing the greenrider, keen eyes are first to spy the bronzerider, rather than being drawn to his arrival by the noises of his less than sneaky entrance. With interest, she watches his progress, the smirk shifting to a look of bemusement. "When he's in his cups, he's in his cups," is muttered, though due regard is given towards Kassima's continued talk. "So I've heard. They've no attachment towards each other, a fact, I've gathered, is typical of flight pairings in most riders? Riding, the Weyrs, seem to be, in varied degrees, all about indulgence. Indulging riders, the dragons, people. Here there. Scratch?" To M'rek, the pale blue eyes go to rest, eyebrows arced gracefully, "It'll only be pleasant if you share. It's never gentlemanly to show off the effects of what you have, and not give us a nip." She pauses, her grin twisting wickedly, "Though, attributing gentleman-like qualities to you would be rather stupid of me."

M'rek takes another step down, pauses a moment for another of those telling chuckles and then he takes a farther step down and moves in to plop down upon a bench one level above the Telgari. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a flask from an inner pocket and he offers it towards the greenrider with a nod then towards the candidate, for M'rek has no limits towards neither corrupting nor corruption, or at least it would seem, "The ignoble batch 21 from still number 4, brewed up only two days before and allowed to age as such until this afternoon and then she was given her coming out party. L'vor, a'course, could only drink two and that leaves me to finish her off right. I think you'll find that she's rough at first taste but surprisingly smooth on the downtake. Just something to drown all thoughts of..nobility." He props his boots then up on the lower tier and laughs, "Aye, lass. Satiet that is. Don't be attributing any such qualities to me these days unless you intend to meet me at daybreak with a length of blade to finish me off."

"And amusing cups they are, too," Kassi murmurs in exchange, with some fondness for the subject. "Typical, although nay always true. A flight can occasionally lead somewhere or just speed things along. But most times, 'tis only a necessity of dragonriding--I don't think I'd quite agree with that statement." Dryly said. "We indulge and serve the dragons, 'twill grant that. Howso people? Scratch, scratching: a natural result of having hives." Glancing between M'rek and Satiet, she adds to the latter, "You might be surprised. I've seen him act with all the polish and grace one could wish from a gentleman... albeit only on one occasion. M'rek, M'rek, I thought 'twas ahead of her in the line t'be killing you?" Not that such potential disappointments can distract her from drinking the flask. Wise woman: she hears him out before opening it, and so has some idea of what to expect from the long pull she takes; she thus only coughs twice, careful to swallow first and waste nothing. "Mmm." A second swallow, as trial. "Should do the trick. Why are we drowning thoughts of nobility today?" She holds the flask out in offering to Satiet as she asks this.

Rachiel walks up into the stands from the entrance to the bowl.
Rachiel has arrived.

"That, sir, can be arranged. I'm handy with a knife, though more so to fish scales than the skin of man. But with you, it's hardly a difference I suspect." Satiet responds tartly, a look of indulgence spared for the tipsy rider. Her hand reaches for the offered flask, and narrowed eyes inspect the contents through the tiny circle of vision allowed by the top. "Your brew? Rotgut then?" Cynicism pulls up one corner of her lips as she sniffs the rim before taking a short pull, followed by one choked cough and soft breath against the back of her hand. Quick to regain her bearings, and after taking up another, longer pull from the flask, she smiles at the greenrider, "Tis the Interval, the Weyrs are indulged in favor of a day when Thread will fall again. That's how with people. Dragon indulgence, rider indulgence."

M'rek watches Kassima drink with those alcohol bright eyes of his and then he laughs and leans back to rest his elbows on the seat behind him so that he's fairly reclined now, "Flights, huh?" all he seems to have to say on that and then he laughs again, "Aye, I can play that part, I suppose. Not as much fun though, unless of course there are feet as nice as there were that night under the Bitran table." A wink from the bronzerider that's followed by, "Aye, Kassi-love, you're well ahead of many in line to put Pern from the misery of my bungling hide." His voice gets drier then and Kassi knows him well enough to see the rawness he must be drinking to dull these days, "And maybe it should be done sooner rather than later before I meddle again over my head." He watches the candidate drink and there's amusement in his eyes now as he reaches for the flask, "Aye. Rotgut. I have a friend at Ista and together we make it as a bit of a hobby. Another indulgence." A sharp bark of laughter then, "Indulgence. The weyrs aren't the only ones indulged. Not these days."

Kassima's eyebrows seem to get a lot of exercise around Satiet. The left one rises first this time, with the right soon to follow. "Such interesting rules the 'Reaches must have for Candidate behavior," she murmurs; not quite amused any longer, but closer to wry than censurious. "Interval 'tis, but 'indulgence' would seem t'imply we return naught in exchange for what we're given. Nay quite accurate. Threadfall is the core of what we do, but nay the whole." These words could easily sound pedantic, but Kassi says them amiably, conversationally, and without offense, then shifts her attention to M'rek once again. "She'd suggested V'lano might be attending Josilina," comes the amused explanation for flights. "M'rek-m'dear, you know full well there are always feet available for you. Just as you know 'twill make your death quick, should need be." It starts out a jest, but she trails it off with a quieter thoughtfulness and lifts green eyes to give him a more thorough scrutiny. "Only I happen t'think the world's better for having you alive. As would others I could name. Whatever you seem t'think you're t'blame for--and you're right. We aren't. Holds, too, I'm guessing you mean."

"Rules, greenrider, are there as.. guidelines. I'm not breaking any of them currently." Satiet's fingers curl around the flask possessively, daring to take another sip before her arm reaches out in slow reluctance to pass it over to its owner. Only the soft flush along her neck indicates the drink's effects, a side effect easily passed off with any number of explanations. "I said he was attending to the weyrwoman's needs. I didn't specify as a mate. She had thoughts of painting the eggs. He seemed.. helpless," is her uncertain assessment of the sire's rider. But subjects move forward, as does the girl's own line of thinking, and she shrugs, gesturing towards the flask, "It's good enough, serves its purpose if it's purpose is to get rip-roaring drunk in as little time as possible." What she perceives as flirtation is given her own set of raised eyebrows, gaze skittering from bronze to greenrider curiously, a thoughtful turn to her lips. "The larger Holds require indulgence. Would it be wrong to say that Pern is, at its core, a very indulgent society? Working on those beneath the structure of titles."

M'rek has almost rested his chin to his chest when Kassi's words make him snort and he lifts his head once more, "Josilina loves R'sel, and for her. Well. Love and attendance are not mutually exclusive. I wouldn't be looking for V'lano, good lad that he is, on Josilina's ledge in any sort of a permanent sense. Duties of flight, and so forth, but I doubt anything more. We aren't all without restraint, after all, and Jos is of the hold bred sort. Though, aye. She might enlist him to help liven up the hues of the eggs." Then, "Aye, Kassi-darling, she can drink, just not too the point that I would and will." A wolfish grin covers his mouth now and he laughs, "Oh. I'm well to blame this time, was all my idea. Such a clever idea." He shrugs his shoulders then, "Big stakes mean big losses." spoken as if he's quoting someone and then he looks to the candidate and reaches forward only to take up the flask and get a pull that makes him shudder for all that it's his creation. He sets the flask on the bench so that the others can get to it again if they so desire. M'rek breathes, and therefore he flirts. "You're too kind to me, Kassima. You should be giving me Oblivion." There's laughter at what must be a joke of some kind then he carries on, "Aye. And some of the larger holds crave more indulgence than others, and get it too. Burning away all that stand in their way. Mayhaps it won't be too long before it won't be seen so much as indulgence in keeping the weyrs, even without thread, if other things are allowed to sear away the greenery and flesh of pern with such impunity." M'rek raises his eyebrows then and laughs, "I sound like a raving lunatic. I should either finish off the flask or make my way to a pub for the duration of the night."

"On this 'twill take your word, or M'rek's; I know Telgar's rules only. Nay those of High Reaches." Kassi watches the passing of the flask with almost wistful eyes. "Ah, well, that I can believe. Far from helpless is Vel, but he's nay so long out of the Weyrling Barracks himself--I do nay believe he's been confronted with the need t'protect eggs from paint a'fore." Quite as if this is an ordinary riding hazard. "Indulgent, I don't know. I'd say self-interested. As any society comprised of people surely must be. Holds indulge the Weyrs in the interest of having lands left t'Hold when the Pass comes around again, as well as transport and aid in other things; Weyrs indulge Holds and Crafts t'receive the benefit of the tithe; Crafts indulge both in order t'have custom. Though things like gratitude and artistry and wanting t'do the right thing come into it too." M'rek's words receive a satisfied nod: that's what she thought. "Vel isn't with her," she agrees simply. "We've spoken of it." As well they might have done, given that the greenrider's spent more than one evening at the 'Reaches since Volath became Sands-bound. "Oh, I meant more in how she was talking t'you. But it doesn't seem you mind. Are you of a mind t'speak of your clever idea?" Casual curiosity; he might, sloshed as he is, miss the current of concern beneath it, or not. As for herself, whether she flirts or simply teases her friend might be in the eye of the beholder. "I haven't Oblivion with me, but I could conjure it, so long as you had Rebirth with which t'be following it. Assuming 'tweren't too unconscious after." Whatever amusement remained vanishes into seriousness entire. "You think Weyr attention might be needed soon?" Quietly asked. Then, "If'n you decide the latter and would like an ear t'rave in, I'm sure I can ambush Vel another evening. But you're welcome t'stay too for all of me. You don't sound half as lunatic as I might wish, with some of that."

"The Lords are allowed those rights. Holding is autonomous of the Weyrs." The words of a small time hold girl is at odds with the shadowed look offered her companions - inquisitive and intent on discerning. As most of the conversation begins to skirt over her head, Satiet makes eyes at the flask, the greenrider's wistful expression matched by her own, but instead her alto lifts to reply to Kassima's words. "I don't disrespect the rider. But I'd say my brand of respect for him is a notch higher than the simpering of most other candidates. For him," she pauses to peer towards M'rek, "At least. It wouldn't do to be so respectful of .. other riders such as Semirath's." Her sun-dark face pales underneath, an uptilt of her head pulling the dark locks out of her eyes, studious silence ensuing on her part.

Rachiel walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl.
Rachiel has left.

M'rek moves his legs so that the heel of one boot rests over the toe of the other and he leans back to his elbows once more, "Oh. That." In regards to the way Satiet speaks to him, he shrugs, "I'd rather have scorn or amusement then some false accord. I'm not looking to be coddled these days. Such as Semirath's, huh?" He regards the candidate in question through eyes half slanted closed and then laughs in such a hollow tone that it might be unsettling to those who really do know him before he shifts that look over to Kassima, "I meddled in His affairs." He shakes his head now, "Meddled and another paid the final price for it. As well as losing, well..." He pauses and says with what could be frustrating vagueness, "An important link in the chain was lost." He shrugs as if this summary will at least indicate something and then he smiles, "I'll not keep you from V'lano. I can find Oblivion and even Rebirth any other night, this bender seems to be unending after all." Maybe because he hasn't gone seeking help to end it. "Aye. We'll all be needed soon enough. Unless of course folk decide they want to see half the northern continent all under one bloodied crest. Ah. Enough politics for me, makes me melancholy when I've been drink so much for so long. Sharding Lord holders."

Kassima's agreement comes distant, preoccupied with thought. "To a large degree. Assuming there's nay shorting of tithe... or other breaking of covenants. 'Tis the Conclave which handles Holds thus, you're right." Drawn slightly out of whatever reverie caught her, she flicks Satiet a half-grin. "Ah, well. That sort of respect. 'Tis an oddity, how often I hear such things of Semirath's." And that's outright bland, as if to hide some emotion--amusement? Possibly. If so, none of it remains in the look she flicks to the bronzerider. "M'rek...." She's a loss, though, for what else to say to express her worry, or what exactly to ask. "Final price." She repeats this softly. After a moment, cautious, "I've been recently t'Beastcraft. Matters there seem well." Well, that made sense. "Vel, believe me, sees me plenty. Even if'n Volath's told him we're visiting--Faranth only knows about that--he'd understand wanting t'hear out a friend, I should think; but that's your call, and the offer's open whenever. I wonder whether the Holds would cry autonomy should that occur." Muttered. Then, "We could speak of something else?"

A charming smile is allowed the riders at their varied reactions to her statement of respect, made flat by the blankness of her eyes. The smile, however, serves to alleviate the girl's sharp features, and with a quiet murmur of indiscernible words, she turns to direct her attention to the sands. For all she's silent and seemingly distracted, Satiet's head tilts just so to afford her the vantage of hearing the conversation between the riders, and allows her to mull over the words of M'rek's loose tongue without the study of others. So when the comment of bloodied crests arises, followed by Kassima's answer, the startled paleness that penetrates beneath her tan is most likely invisible to those behind her. In all likeliness, she'll sit till she's heard the end, but the greenrider's request of a change in subject is met with a lightly intoned remark, "If Oblivion and Rebirth are drinks, I'd like to add them to my request. Sir. With the knowledge that the chore you require may be expanded upon."

M'rek does have a loose tongue. Or. At least he had one once upon a time, in such a convenient sort of spreading of information fashion, and maybe it's a bit of the old Merek that reaches again for the flask and drinks deeply before he looks so very thoughtful, as if he really is considering spilling that one particular slice of the ongoing drama that has him a sodden drunk so many nights in a row. "Aye. Oblivion and Rebirth are drinks. Only really Kassi can make the first. Though. I can give it a solid try if we have all the ingredients. But. It's a one drink trip to drunk, and so it might be more than what you really want, Satiet. Hard to do chores, or anything really, when you can't move your limbs or open your eyes. Still. Maybe at some time. Arrangements could be made." Really, does M'rek have no regards at all for rules these days? He drinks once more and the passes the flask to Kassima, "Better have another one. I've not even told the Harper what's happened yet." Oddly enough, it would even seem that M'rek's been avoiding the Harperhall of late and all who reside there. "Did you ever meet one of Vorlin's potential brides, one of The Flock, by the name of Kasedy?" He seems to be asking Kassima but he's not excluding Satiet from the conversation either, which may bode well or ill for the candidate, depending upon her temperament and what she might do with any knowledge gained.

Kassima takes a turn at being somewhat out of the loop, slanting an inquisitive glance between Candidate and bronzerider at this latest comment by the former. "I could possibly be convinced t'mix Oblivion, for a good cause." Pause. "Getting drunk off one's mind is a good cause. But--aye, that, 'tisn't a drink for having unless or until you *can* get drunk. So 'twould only make it once rules nay longer bound." There is a brief flicker of exasperation in the glance she gives M'rek, but the wry grin that curves her mouth is real. It broadens for the flask, which she gladly accepts. "Rodric hasn't mentioned being particularly concerned about you of late," she agrees, mild again, "so I could guess he hasn't seen you--always assuming a'course that he would speak of such t'me. Thankee." She helps herself to a swallow of the rotgut, and a swipe of the back of her wrist at one watering eye after. "Kasedy--oh, aye. The one with an accent nigh as thick as mine. Daughter of the Bitran and Keroon lines, aye?" She likewise addresses this to both, so that perhaps it's more clarification for Satiet than true inquiry. Under her breath to M'rek, "Are you going t'be inviting death again by talking about this?"

"I'm as good a cause as any. And rules, rules," Satiet manages to venture a lopsided smirk. "Rules only matter if you get caught, as someone was so nice to point out to me." As to who this is, the downward cast of feigned demureness gives no indication. Her expression stills in that mix of demure and smirk, the melt it takes of fading into a more neutral look slow and a bit displaced. "Vorlin is...?" the question trails off, brows peaked upwards in inquiry. Not one to confess ignorance unless pressed, the girl looks back again, glancing from Telgari to High Reaches rider.

M'rek snorts a little bit as Kassima mentions the Harper by name, "Aye. I doubt as much. He's busy with other interests while.." He halts then just as a rather surprising amount of anger seems to creep into his voice and M'rek actually seems to bite at his tongue before he runs one hand over his shaved head and gets his, albeit intoxicated self, in more check. "The Master of Harper's is not like to be worried about me these days. There are too many other things going on, I'm sure. And after all, I can take care of myself." Ha. So it would seem. He's taking perfectly good care of his liver. He looks to Satiet and raises one eyebrow before he supplies the answer, "Lord Vorlin. Him. Lord of Bitra." That guy that some circles frequently talk about without ever actually saying His name. "Keroon Hold recently changed hands. Almost was Kasedy's. Fake accent and all. Anyway. She's dead now." Now M'rek is deadpan in delivery. "So close. So sharding close."

"True in a sense, but 'twould advise caution in whom you discuss the breaking of rules around," suggests Kassi with dry humor. "Nay that I'm of a mind t'tattle, so long as we're--as far as I know--speaking hypothetically. Telgar this isn't. And Vorlin is the current Lord Bitra." M'rek's anger gets the biggest jump of eyebrows tonight--surprise bordering on startlement, followed by... what? Her expression becomes difficult to read, beyond being a bit still. "Given givens, I feel a sudden compulsion t'be apologizing," she finally says, neutral-voiced. "Yet if'n you haven't spoken with him recently, how can you be sure? I can swear t'you that he worries for you. He speaks of you often. I believe he counts you of great import." She lets it lie there, at least for now, with a last skeptical glance before that path is forgotten in the wake of a new startlement and cause for still posture, widened eyes. "She's dead." It doesn't manage to be a question. "Since when?"

M'rek's reaction is observed, as per norm, Satiet's lips twisting into a set that's neither thoughtful or amused. What seems to be the final straw for her, at least after the trace, tightened smile cast towards Kassima for her words of advice, is the bronzerider's continuation of, to her, ill-advised remarks. The news of Kasedy's death is met with widened eyes that quickly narrow down into calculating slits. "I'll have to come find you for your wares later, sir. Ma'am." Her rise from the bench is languid, the tilt of her chin that of leisure as if they'd been speaking of the weather, the eggs, or the state of klah at the Reaches. The final title is punctuated by a small, knowing smile for Kassima, and the last comment is tossed towards M'rek, "You ride with crowds far above a poor holder's head. And here I thought you a simple drunk and brawler. I'll seek you out next time, sir. Good evening." Without awaiting a reply, hands shove into her pockets and a whistle, if a trifle forced, precedes her out the exit.

You walk down a short flight of steps and head out through the entrance to the bowl.

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek sits a row above Kassima and watches Satiet leave with eyes that are unreadable in such a fashion that he could actually be up to something. Or not. Never can tell with this wreck of a bronzerider. "I am a simple drunk and brawler. Sometimes." His attention goes back to Kassi and he looks still blank of feature a moment before he says dryly, "That's like the ale apologizing for my general state of being." The words roll right off his tongue even though he's likely too drunk to walk smoothely from the gallery at the moment. "Aye. She's dead. Since a couple of months ago." Coincidentally when M'rek started to spend every free moment with the scent of alcohol on his breath. "Just haven't told anyone before now."

From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel stands aside as the candidate moves past him on his way in. His mug held high enough the girl can pass under it before he continues up the steps with a bemused comment to her back of, "Was it something I said?" He shakes his head as he moves farther into the galleries and starts to lift a hand in greeting, the one not already occupied, "Good eve, M'rek, m'lady. Reaches Duties."

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima comments in Satiet's wake, "I told her nay t'call me that." By the ruefulness, however, it's not as if she's really expecting the woman to care. "Is that one really a Candidate? I'd swear she's up to or after something from the look of her. But she didn't know who Vorlin was? Bizarre." Her dark green eyes are thoughtful as she casts them back up to the bronzerider, and narrow in yet more thought at that expression. "Nay often enough for your peace of mind," she mutters. "I suppose so; but if'n ale could think, it might choose nay t'slosh you, mightn't it, if'n it meant causing damage elsewhere. Nay that I'm certain I'm sorry since I still think you may be wronging him. That long and it hasn't gotten out?" Surprise again, unsurprisingly. "Because of Keroon, or...?" She's pulled away from this conversation--held, on her end, just barely above a murmur, in a last attempt at discretion--by R'sel's greeting, and turns about to offer a wave. "More like something we said, I shouldn't wonder," she calls. "Duties to the 'Reaches and her queens; I don't know what lady you might be addressing, though. 'Tis nay, I fear, a word that can really be used t'describe me, whatever Vel says."

From the sands> In the galleries, "Maybe she's one of His. Wouldn't be the first time He's managed to put one here." Obviously. M'rek shrugs and then says, "I like her." For whatever that's worth. "Aye. Not nearly enough, though I'm making up for lost time lately. Only missing a really good brawl to finish me off, I think. Maybe. Well. Someone will turn up for that. I'm thinking I'm going to make arrangements with a certain someone in particular and we can sell tickets. Maybe I'll even train a little for it." He certainly wouldn't seem up to fighting Gerome in this condition, that's for sure, certainly after the way they nearly did kill each other last time. "Aye." He nods, "Likely I am wronging him. But I'm just saying. Well. I know which poison has me by the groin and I don't let it keep me from..well." He settles back, "I do what I do regardless. Shards. Listen to me. Like it matters." Even he seems unsure for the root of his anger there. A nod comes for the brownrider, "R'sel." and then, "No body for it to get out." Oh M'rek. Such a busy lad. "Aye. Because of Keroon. It was..well. I meddled." As R'sel arrives, M'rek falls broodingly quiet.

From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel takes his time to look out over the sands a minute or two, then flashes a grin at the visiting rider, "R'sel, brown Svraoth's. And trust me, its an old habit m'lady, that many have tried to break me of." A glance back the way he came and then he chuckles, "Just my timing then." As he catches a word or two of the other and makes his guess, he waves a hand, "Don't worry M'rek. A little fish told me to stay out of that pond. And you know how it goes when they have their say. I can't break my word, until she breaks hers, or some such." Doesn't keep him from looking at least mildly curious though, despite his words.

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima snorts with abrupt, dark-edged humor. "Don't be silly," she says. "She wasn't wearing ridiculous boots. I might admittedly have liked her better if'n she hadn't seemed out t'make me think V'lano and Josilina had a thing going a'fore you got here. She doesn't even know me; why would she do that?" She sounds less bewildered, however, than slightly tired. "Mayhaps a group brawling trip would be more the thing?" she tentatively suggests. "Work off the steam *without* getting killed? I'm nay of a mind t'let you get killed. Just so you know. Whatever you think you've done. You didn't do it t'her yourself." Complete certainty in her voice there; it would ring, but quiet voices don't really allow for ringing. Her eyebrows do their jumping routine again. She doesn't seem to know whether to laugh or be vaguely affronted. "Poison. Faranth. She'd probably love t'hear you call her *that*. You should talk t'him--see what he says, and tell him besides; he'll surely have t'know. I shouldn't ask what happened to the body, should I. Talk about questions I never foresaw m'self asking. Did you try and put her up for it?" She summons a grin for R'sel, wry but genuine, and says, "There are worse habits t'be having, come to that. Kassima, green Lysseth's, and Kassima or Kassi are just fine." Puzzlement replaces her wan humor though: "Fish? Pond?"

From the sands> In the galleries, "Boots." M'rek stills a moment, brow furrowed as he seems to be considering something he hasn't let him think about yet. "No idea why she'd want you to think that, or even what good or ill it would do. Still. Sometimes there's just no telling." M'rek's all driving addiction to politics just can't let that topic slide by without just a little speculation and then he nods, "Aye. Perhaps. Or. Perhaps I should be considering that which I previously would not have allowed myself to consider." Vague enough for ya? He rubs a hand over his head and then listens before saying, "Aye, and I appreciate the sentiment, Kassima. Well. I didn't actually do the killing this time, but I might as well have. All or nothing. Everything seems to be so all or nothing when that 'pond' is concerned." He nods to R'sel, "Jos knows what she's talking about. Best to stay out of Bitran matters all together." As if M'rek would or will keep out himself. "Aye. You could say that. I arranged a path to circumvent an alliance with Him that would result in..well. It's a long story all together. And. Well, this is just how it ended. Her dead. And me knowing it was her instead of me." Lord Vorlin does seem to enjoy keeping M'rek alive even when he seems quick enough to finish others off. "You two don't know each other? You should. And now I suppose you do."

From the sands> In the galleries, Both shaggy brows lift towards R'sel's brow line and he looks again to the bowl, "She thought Jos what?" Then a sly grin, "Shards. What a rumor to start. It'd take more than catching her dragon and a clutch on the sands to open that door with Jos. I should know. Took me turns to get her to take notice of what was there all along." He shakes his head, "Might be amusing to see her try and suggest that one in front of Josilina." He only listens to the next part, at least to a point, then glances to M'rek, "Just tell me not your charge, or I can think of a pair of sisters that should be forewarned and standing by for her sister." He pauses to nods again Kassima's way, "There are worse, but this one's been enough to earn me a slap or two along the way. Not that it's so easy to give up." Especially if you don't try? "I'll stay out if she doesn't give me reason to go dragging her out. She's of a mind that she doesn't have to heed her own advice and promise me exactly the same in return." The brownrider dips a shoulder, then shakes his head. "Never formally met before. Just had m'lady pointed out in passing on one of my...trips to Telgar."

From the sands> In the galleries, "The unkind part of me," Kassima remarks, sardonically amused now, "has plenty of theories and each snarkier than the last, but--nay harm done, since I know better, and methinks in the long term I could come t'like her too. Depending. Still think she's up t'something. Tell me, M'rek: did I kill m'Wingriders, when I led 'em into Fall and Thread took them? If'n so, you'd better pass all your alcohol on over. I may just have more deaths on m'head than you. I worry what it may be that you haven't previously permitted yourself t'consider, that you'd consider now." Her concern is certainly real, but doesn't stop her from giving him another narrow, thoughtful look, nor speculating, "Some sort of power alliance between Bitra and Keroon? Or... but why would it be you, then? Unless you're Keroon's secret heir. I've heard his name, a'course," she adds, turning back to R'sel with a smile that for some reason is on the wry side. "But I'd never formally had the pleasure. And pleasure 'tis, I'm sure. Isn't it absurd? I won't deny I thought of it too, at first, and asked, but if'n she's been here then she should know--" She flashes another grin, this one warmer with humor. "If'n she does, I'd be appreciative if'n someone could pass on the tale of the reaction t'me. It sounds entertaining. The lady at the Beastcraft," even though the question of sorts wasn't directed to her, "was well when I saw her last, nay long ago. Well, I promise nay t'slap you, how's that? I'd rather be a lady than a ma'am for all that I'm nay truly either."

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek is quick to shake his head, "Nay, not my charge. At least I've still never lost one of those. Young lord Cain will be a turn old tomorrow." As if this were of interest at this point. "All seems well enough along those lines, and Cailin's not had a hair on her head hurt. Was one of the Flock." M'rek clears off the tip of that iceburg and then looks to Kassima with interest, "Perhaps. But. It wasn't your hand that put them to impression or into your wing. You don't pluck them from the safe life of crafter and make them into something. Well." He pauses and then says, "In some ways I guess you can say I've become as bad as Him. Meddling in lives and making plans." Or attempting to break plans, it would seem, "Aye, an alliance between Bitran and Keroon. Nay, I'm not a secret heir." At least not on today's episode anyway. He listens to the talk about Jos and V'lano then and yet, he doesn't look as if he's really listening. It seems more like he's thinking dangerous thoughts and that's what brings him to his feet, steady enough for all the rotgut that's been poured into him tonight. "I have to go see someone. Kassi. See you around soon, maybe even for a full story. Say hello to that Harper for me when next you run into him. R'sel. Always good to see you."

From the sands> In the galleries, R'sel just grins a bit wider as he agrees, "Ah, well. If I see it. I'll be glad to pass along the tale. I'm sure it will rank right up there with telling her she's wearing orange or grey." He gives a little bow for that, "And a pleasure to meet you too m'lady, properly that is. And if I might be so bold. I've always thought lady the more polite term to use if one has the option to choose." There's a nod as he adds the impute, "Not everything can be your fault, M'rek." But he refrains from more as a look of relief crosses his features, "Ahh good. Not something I was wanting to tell Jos. I think she's still half for kidnapping the pair of them." Anything more keeps as he nods, "Always good to see you as well, M'rek."

From the sands> In the galleries, Kassima gives M'rek a keen look. "You speak true, but wouldn't it be the blood that makes any of the Flock what they are? That's born, that's nay made. And you're too young t'have done her siring. Recall too that if'n nay anyone meddled for good now and then, 'twould leave the field clear for those with ill intent t'do whatever they willed." She reaches up to attempt to catch one of his hands and squeeze it, if she can, a gesture of friendship and worry; should she catch, she lets go readily enough when he stands. "Aye. Give a yell if'n you ever feel like talking; 'twill bring the liquor. I'll do that. You take care of yourself, all right?" She nods to R'sel then, with a halfhearted chuckle. "Oh, the fireworks that'd happen if'n you did *that*. I've only really run into the lady a time or two, and I can be imagining. I'm nay going t'disagree with you on terms. Ma'am makes me feel old. Or worse yet, respectable."

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek has his hand caught by Kassima's as he gets to his feet and he looks surprised and perhaps even more before he nods to her and then to R'sel as well for some of his words, "Aye. I suppose I can't claim responsability for all of it. Still. It's a dire setback, and I'm not liking the ramifications I see." He moves his head then, stretching his neck as if he's reading for a fight, and yet, all he says is, "Aye. I'll take care. I'll be around." Clearly he's ready to get this particular burden off his chest." He squeezes the greenrider's hand back and then nods before he scoops up his flask and makes his way out, careful of the steps in his condition.

From the sands> In the galleries, M'rek walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl.</lj-cut>
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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
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Logs:M'rek, Once More

2014-11-22T04:47:22Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=M'rek, Satiet |what= |where= |when=day 15, month 8, turn 1, interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.22 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg, |icons=..."

{{Log
|who=M'rek, Satiet
|what=
|where=
|when=day 15, month 8, turn 1, interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.22
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=You push the hides aside and step into the kitchen.
Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr
The kitchens of High Reaches Weyr are contemporary, spare and simple in design, free of clutter. The sleek surfaces are a hallmark of the current Pernese style - polished marble and granite, metalwork, and woods. The background colors of the kitchen are light and neutral, allowing for bold tone accessories to take center stage. The lighting and entryway opening treatments are low-profile and minimalist. The hearths have been fitted with modern equipment and simple, sleek metalwork to add an up-to-date touch to the heavily used areas.

The polished granite counters are long and wide, allowing for ample work space. The woodwork is lightly stained, bringing out the natural hues in the grain. A simple cording, in the same bold color as the accessories, borders each cabinet door, accenting the room. Two large islands break up the kitchen into work areas: baking center, butchery, vegetable and side center, and the serving organization center. The floor is tiled with large marble squares, each section carrying a different, yet complimentary color to direct the flow of traffic. The entryway into the Living Cavern has been expanded to fit two doors - in and out - each marked with its own identifying color that matches the tiles just inside the doors, to keep collisions from occurring. The cavern itself has been expanded to include breakfast nooks, where residents can sit to eat, while leaving the main kitchen free from tables and the traffic that accompanies a busy Weyr.
Contents:
M'rek
Obvious exits:
LIving Cavern Lower Caverns

There's a corner table flanked by benches and nestled into a nook, and this is where M'rek has set up camp for what would seem to be the evening. The bronzerider has an oversized bowl of chowder before him, a mug of ale at his elbow and he's also got a stack of hidework it would seem. He looks quite intent as he scrawls over a blank hide in a handwriting that's easy to read if on the blocky side.

Barefeet lend itself well to being silent, and while a few cooks dart disturbed looks at her lack of footware - unsanitary, see - Satiet pads in blithely with a large tub of dishes held underneath her arm. "That's the last of them for the night," is said to the kitchen supervisor, "Jhisra's wiping down the tables and that's all I was signed up to do today." Before the large man can reply, or ask her to do more, the girl turns to leave, steps pausing as a familiar face catches her keen eyes. Coming up next to the table, she leans forward, hands reaching across to support her weight. With a distant smile on her lips, her cool alto breaks the silence of M'rek's nook, "Studying? I didn't know brawlers wrote, let alone read."

There's an immediate grin from M'rek that's all ease and yet he finishes writing out the sentence he was working on before he actually looks up to meet the candidate's eyes. He chuckles and then waves one hand towards the empty space on the bench across from him. "Aye, I suppose that could be a surprise." He sets the stylus down and then wiggles his fingers as if to loosen them, and it would seem that he's working on quite a penning for the stake of already scrawled upon hides is large. "But, alas, this brawler at least spends far too many of his sober moments putting to ink what he's done, seen and heard with the rest of his day. How's candidacy treating you, Satiet?" He even remembers her name.

"Sober moments, indeed." Pleased at the recognition, though attempts are made to temper that reaction, Satiet takes the free spot across from M'rek, her hands cupped against the edge of the table. "Seeing you the other day, I'd reckon you didn't have many of those. Sober moments, that is." Her lips quirk, blue eyes flicking speculatively up and down the visible length of the rider. "Drunk or not, I doubt you spend much time without your wits about you. For the Weyrleader?" There's a small attempt to peer at the writing, though for now, her attention is primarily on the writer. "I hope he wasn't terribly disappointed about your lack of a bruises. And candidacy is treating me as well as anyone I suppose." Her lips thin, eyes narrowing upon the top hide on the stack. "It's a hodgepodge of characters in the barracks. I suppose I didn't expect boys and girls to be roomed together. Welcome to the Weyrs of Pern."

If M'rek notices Satiet schooling her reaction he's doesn't show it, he merely drops his eyes to the hides he's been at as he straightens them, and then he looks back to her with another of those easy smiles of his, "Aye. Seeing me the other day, I'd imagine anyone would. And. Truth be told, I wish I did get to spend a great deal more of my time drinking than at other things. But. Alas, tis just not meant to be. Too much work. Aye. For the Weyrleader." He rolls his shoulders in an easy manner and then reaches over for the spoon that goes with his cooling chowder. Ink stains show over his fingers. "I wouldn't be still alive if I spent any time without some manner of wits about it." His grin is still there, but there's some sort of knowing quality to the look now that almost gives him a tired air. "He was surprised, but he let it slide seeing as how disgraceful I'd rolled in the last time he wanted an immediate verbal report. That's just what you get when you can't wait for the inked version of events. I imagine you're picking up bruises of your own as a candidate?" Now it's the bronzerider's turn to look the young woman over. "You seem like you're still hanging in there well enough. Aye. A hodgepodge indeed. At least you get to sleep on seperate sides of the barracks."

"Fair enough. Though what goes on at night is best left to the imaginations of folk who've already gone through the entire process." Satiet imparts, the implications of her words punctuated by the knowing arc of one dark brow. "It's worse than home, but the food's better. I've no complaints yet, except I see no reason why we do menial chores and labor instead of what we've been trained to do. Does the Weyr fall apart when there are no eggs on the sands?" Throughout her words, she continues to move, hands carefully rolling up the sleeves of her sweater, and then turning over, the slightly less tan underskin shown splotched here and there with tiny marks. "I was waiting tables tonight, I'm sure there's a healthy purpling on my hip by now. I'm almost loathe to see it. Certainly, nothing as charming as the marks you've on your face. Is that in your reports as well? Your fighting?" One slim arm snakes out, gaining ahold of the mug of ale, and bringing it to her lips. Once it's brought down a bit, the lips that graze the rim fashion into a faint smirk, "You've better taste in drink than most."

M'rek chuckles dryly and nods in reponse to the comment about what goes on in the barraks at night, "Maybe some candidates could use more menial labor to put them a bed a good deal more tired. Can't say that I've ever given a lot of thought as to why candidates spend so much time at menial tasks, but I'm sure if I asked I'd get some sort of response from the Weyrleader about the necessity of it and the rewards to be reaped." Now his grin is wry before he finishes up, "You'd think it would fall apart, and yet..it seems to manage right along. Frequently it seems to me that none of us are fundamental to the flow of life at the weyr, be it candidate, cook, or nere'do-well bronzerider." A spoonful of chowder is swallowed without any real enthusiasm and then he pushes the bowl away, "Aye. I'm sure you'll pick up all sorts of bruises. Good practice for if you impress." A pause for breath and then an amused look, "Aye. Most of my fighting goes into my reports. Unless there's some particularly special reason to leave it out." He watches as she drinks and then he says with a motion of his eyebrows, "Aye. But then I've access to better drink than most, so there's that."

"Everyone dies anyway," a light shrug brings the rolled sleeve further up along her arm, "It's often times like this, I wonder if living is pointless. Might as well take what jollies and chances wander in our paths, such as standing for oversized eggs." Her head tipts backwards for another long sip of ale. A faint smile emerges on her lips as she puts the mug down and nudges it forward with a flick of fingers and wrist. "I thank you for your drink, sir. Perhaps, one day, I can repay you for those two sips stolen." Satiet's lips curve in dry amusement, before she leans back and to the side against the wall of the nook. "Caritha suggested the wines or ciders in the living caverns, and they don't quite hit the spot." - "It's to make us tired, the labor, I suppose. So we won't go off and get pregnant, but unless they patrol the barracks nightly, ... well, you were young, once." Liquid-blue eyes dance over the bronzerider's features before seeking out his own gaze, "Perhaps still young if you find pleasure in fighting." There's a silent beat, a pause touched with curiosity of an unvoiced question in regards to one of M'rek's many statements. Instead, the girl's expression clears and she continues on, "Better drink than what the Weyr can provide?"

M'rek stills with her first words, his face blank a moment as if frozen that way and then he nods slowly, "Aye. We do all die sooner or later. Some perhaps sooner than expected." His voice roughens a moment and then he brings forth a charming sort of grin to dispel the unease before he goes on, "Maybe it is pointless. All of it." Voiced as if he's thought that a thousand times over, "And yet, what else is there to do? Might as well, aye, enjoy all there is to be enjoyed. Be it standing for those over sized eggs, or drinking, or carousing." Those shoulders roll once more and then his smile seems settled into it's natural comfort. "Perhaps you can then, someday. Though, I could hardly begrudge either a candidate or an attractive young lady a swallow or two of ale. Even if she does speak as if I already have one foot in the grave." Even if he really does generally have one foot in the grave. "Caritha, huh?" Mild interest from the bronzerider, "How's she doing? Haven't seen her in awhile." Spoken as his eyes slip off to glance at his report before he looks back once more, "Aye. I know how the barracks can be, for I was indeed, young once." There's a bout of laughter and then, "I find pleasure in all sorts of things, even despite my advancing turns. Drinking, aye. Fighting, aye, that as well as other things. And yet, not all of my fighting is with persons for reasons that strictly need to be mentioned in my reports, unless there's some outcome or effect that tips a balance of some kind. Sometimes, it's hard to make the call on that. So mostly, the fights are reported. The Weyrleader tends to be understanding, and he's not one to be taken lightly in a brawl himself." The mug is glanced at and then M'rek nods, "Aye, and yet that ale is from S'rist's own stock. I can generally get much better wine than most of what you'll find served here."

M'rek
Tall and broad shouldered, M'rek is impressive of form. The pale skin of his face is marked with a long healed scar that snakes down his left cheek for at least two inches. Other than the mark, his features are attractive enough if on the rugged side of handsome. His eyes are a dark and moody black that seems to spark all the more for their shadows. This twenty-six turns old male has had all of his hair shaved off, leaving him smoothly bald. His eyebrows are jet black, so possibly that was the color of his hair. The clean look of his pate is an interesting look for the man and calls more attention to the intensity of his eyes.

M'rek wears a dark blue shirt, dark wherhide breeches and boots of black. The belt around his waist holds a large knife and is fastened with a belt buckle in the shape of a dragon. There is a High Reaches Weyr rider's knot on his shoulder.

The reaction to her offhand phrase is noted and most likely catalogued, given the slight narrowing of her inquisitive eyes, after which life goes on as normal. While Satiet is able to keep up the semblance of blithe ignorance, a smirk, however, lingers in subtle shifts of her face, a tense set to her cheeks, or the soft rosing of the jaw line. "Do I? I don't think you have a foot in your grave. Yet. But close enough to it." A leg lifts, foot propping itself against the edge of the bench, chin rested against the top of her knee. Pleasure, like anger, is usually hard to mask when so young, and the faint color at her cheeks heightens, darkened by the shadows of the secluded area. "As long as the candidate doesn't get drunk off the ale, eh? Though, it's hardly as interesting to report back to the candidate coordinators or the Weyrleader as much as your carousing." The curve of her lips is a smile, for all intents and purposes, though overshadowed by the faint appearance of ridicule flickering in her eyes. "She's well enough. I confess I don't know very much about her, but she seems to pine for her weyrmate. Know very much is perhaps an understatement. I've spoken to her once." The girl leans forward, dark hair falling forward to soften the shadowed sharpness of her cheeks, "And that's all life is about in the end, isn't it? Work hard, find pleasure where you can and take up those opportunites whenever possible, yes? I've a proposition for you. Sir. More like a request, as I'm but a simple candidate."

M'rek leans back to the wall and stretches his legs out under the table, relaxing as he watches the play of color and shadow over her face. Perhaps he's doing a little cataloging of his own, "Aye. As long as the candidate doesn't get drunk. Or. At least as long as she doesn't get so drunk that it's noticed and noted. Faranth knows I got drunk more than once as a candidate. I just didn't make a show of it. Still. That would definitely be something not to put in a report. S'rist would be sure to clout me for getting one of the chosen few intoxicated." He grins though, as if seriously considering it and not really caring that much about consequences. "Yet, aye. Perhaps it wouldn't be as interesting. Depends. You're not the heir to some hold or another are you? That would make it more interesting. Reportwise at least." He chuckles then, "Caritha's another one impressed same clutch as I did. Aye. I've heard that she pines for P'wert." Amusement is clear here, "That one's always pining for someone or another." Then, "Aye. I suppose you could say that was a lot of what life was about." He doesn't really seem to agree and yet he doesn't really seem to disagree either. He finishes with an inquiry of his own, "A request? All right then, let's hear it."

"Caritha is a girl." It's spoken as if she herself wasn't one. Soft disgust interlaces throughout her comments, "She pines in the same way a frie-...nd of mine does for all men." The break up of the word is entirely intentional, the girl's chin tilting thoughtfully as she finishes the sentence. Her arms cross over her chest as she leans back into her corner, and the raised leg falls back to the ground. "You're not a very good role model. I doubt Rylla or Thiana would be pleased to hear what you've said of your less than stellar candidacy. Though it doesn't seem to matter much, does it, these rules imposed on us, on how you fare on the sands." Satiet's blue eyes come to rest on the rider's knot in brief contemplation. His suggestion is replied to with a burst of laughter, one that's just loud enough to attract the attention of other workers, "You jest, if I were a holder's daughter, I wouldn't need to be asking someone as dubious of character as you favors, now would I? And it's because you're such a man of mystery that I can ask you, and not... any other number of riders or people here. It's too simple, I'm afraid. I've none of the intrigue that seems to descend on your shoulders like a Lord Holder's robes. I'd like to have access to your liquor. I knew where my father kept the storage keys home. I don't know who has the nicest things here. It'll, at best, keep away the headaches brought on by the nattering that Amarie or the other candidates do. And in return," she shrugs, a sarcastic turn playing on her lips, "As cliche as it sounds, I'll be in your debt until after candidacy. Unless you'd like a ribbon from my press in payment."

Caritha comes into the kitchen from the living cavern.
Caritha has arrived.

Jairen comes through the hides covering the doorway from the lower caverns.
Jairen has arrived.

Jairen wanders in with a load of dirty dishes, weaving through the hustle and bustle to the sinks.

M'rek chuckles in a knowing way, Satiet's clear disgust making his amusement all the sharper, "Aye. She's a girl all right." and then he watches as she shifts position and then nods his agreement, "Aye. That's the right of it. I'm not a good role model at all, unless you're looking to fashion a drunken, brawling, rake, and then I'm your man." A pause and then, "Rylla and Thiana." His grin is again, something a little wolfish as he just names the coordinators and then he seems to need to say no more on that subject. "Aye. That's the most common description for me, dubious of character." He laughs and then nods to the candidate before him, "That. I can provide. What's your poison of choice then?"

"Sailor's whiskey. Preferably from Tillek. Something with a bite while drinking, and a kick thereafter in the stomach, but not unpleasant in general. And captain's quality." Satiet's hands come to rest on the table before her, fingers interlocked in a loose hold. It's an hour or so after dinner, and in the nominal bustle of the kitchens, M'rek and the candidate are seated in one of the breakfast nooks off to the side - a large stack of hides before the rider, as well as a half-finished bowl of chowder and mug of ale, and the candidate squirreled away in the corner opposite him. The fingers unclasp and instead tap an idle rhythm out against the stone table. "Once a week, perhaps. Unless you've something better to offer?"

Amarie comes through the hides covering the doorway from the lower caverns.
Amarie has arrived.

Caritha sticks her head in first, looking about as though trying to spot someone or something, but then seems satisfied and steps on into the room. Spotting Jairen first, with an armload of dishes, she offers up a greeting, "Hi Jai, how are you doing? Finally got kitchen duty like you wanted or just dishes?" She heads towards the counters, looking to see what sorts of goodies might be found here, overhearing M'rek's voice and commentary, causing her to pause, and grin at the bronzerider "Drunken rake? You've been perfecting yourself some more? How are you and Ulfianth doing, haven't seen much of you recently." Hearing Satiet's answer, she shakes her head, "Don't go getting the candidates drunk lest they get thrown out of here before the hatching. Not everyone can get away with all the things you do." Satiet is then given a grin, "Hiya. How are you doing? Don't let M'rek rub off on you too much now."

Jairen looks up to Caritha, and smiles brightly. "Just dishes, but I don't mind. You can learn a lot just by listening and paying attention. How are you and P'wert doing today?"

Amarie steps into the caverns shaking the ends her skirt free of -whatever- that might be on there. She quickly crosses through the cavern and sits down at a table, propping her chin in her elbow and looking around as if to catch the action that's happening there. Little candidates have big ears.

M'rek raises his eyebrows in some surprise at the naming provided by Satiet, "Interesting. Aye, I can provide that. Not tonight, but tomorrow unless my Wingleader sets me out on extra sweeps." Evidently this happens. He nods to the frequency and says, "But I'd want something in return. And not a ribbon." He pulls the mug of ale towards him and then glances into the glass to appreciate the ambered color before he takes a swallow. "You could do a small chore for me. In between all those other chores." Caritha's voice draws his attention then and he gives a sideways grin to the greenrider, "Aye. We've been right near perfection of late, and not here at the weyr so often as not. Not to worry. I'm not going to be actually forcing any candidates to drink. They'll have to get used to my disgraceful influence sooner or later anyway. Especially, if I request and get to assistant weyrlingmaster." He nods to the other arrivals then, and slides a little down the bench to make room.

Satiet's sharpened cajoling features still, the shadows of dim lighting mostly hiding the subtle shifts her expression undergoes - first the eyes lose the glint of chipped ice and her expression relaxes fractionally, long enough for a less haphazard and more congenial smile to float to her lips. An arm lifts to hail the approaching greenrider, followed by a greeting, "Evening, ma'am, to you and your, ah, weyrmate." The turn of the door from the caverns catches her attention long enough for her to find Amarie within the crowds in the kitchens, and while her greeting is unvoiced, the careful incline of her head towards the girl from the Beastcraft is enough for now. Blue gaze strays to M'rek, a twitch of her lips giving due consideration to his words before she nods. "I'm assuming you've bet that I'll last out the candidacy at least, so as long as the chore isn't something that'll get me sent home, we'll both be square. I've time to spare and my free time is my own as far as I've been able to tell." Her voice falls silent as she peers over towards the sinks towards Jairen.

Jairen pauses in her dishwashing, offering Caritha and the others a smile. "Crowded night here in the kitchens! I know I am just a dishwasher, today, but can I get anyone anything? There's some nice stew that there wasn't enough of to actually put out..."

Caritha finds herself some cider and pours a mugful, turning back to M'rek with a raised eyebrow, "Assistant weyrlingmaster? Oh my, Faranth save the poor candidates... or maybe I should be pitying S'din and Amilin?" She chuckles, "This could be very amusing indeed, watching S'din punish his assistant as much or more so than the weyrlings. They might get out of all the distateful chores with your assistance." She smiles warmly at Satiet, "We're all doing quite well. I do hope you've settled in well by now, I see you've gotten to know all the characters at our weyr indeed." Jairen is given additional information, "P'wert sends his regards, he looked for you yesterday when he came by but you were busy. Hopefully he'll be over soon, he had late duties today. You aunt also sends her regards, and D'ru as well of course." Amarie is then spotted and offered a smile, "Hi. I do hope you've gotten settled by now? Semirath says she wants to see you again, in place where I won't be getting sick."

Amarie waves at Caritha and stands up, moving over towards the woman. "Is she really? That's neat that she still remembers me. I'm settled in as I can be. I went to the barbecue they held, but I'm sorry I didn't see you there. Or V'lano for that matter," Amarie throws in his name as well.

M'rek spends a few moments looking over Caritha, Jairen and then Amarie in turn, the last of which he nods to as he seems to be trying to place her in his mind, "I think we met at the lava lounge one night, didn't we?" It would be a bar. The bronzerider's dark eyes shift back to Satiet and then he nods, "I wouldn't ask something like that of a candidate." He's clearly amused now, "Must protect my investments, no matter what they are." Then he speaks to the greenrider, "Aye. Would be an interesting change of pace at least. S'din never gave me any trouble, I mostly did a good job of flying low during our training. Or. At least I didn't get out on nights when others were up to worse than I was." His grin is slanted and then he drinks from his mug once more before he answer Jairen, "I don't need anything at the moment, but thank you, Lass."

"No stew for me, thank you." Lips purse thoughtfully as she considers Jairen for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "I had duties at keeping the sinks full. People should reuse their plates rather than get a new one for more food, but it keeps us busy. We," her head dips to include M'rek in that pronoun, "Were just talking about why they make us do meaningless chores." Satiet's interest sparks at the mention of V'lano, and a cross between amused and confused mires the bland set of her face. "He was, last I saw, trying to figure out a way to appease the junior weyrwoman. Eggs, painting, sand. It was all rather confusing," she informs Amarie, "And then Linnea got searched, though I've heard some people say it was because she was holding some sweet sand that the dragon was more interested in. Or the hold sand sculpture." Disinterest closes that line of thinking quickly, and the dark-haired candidate leans forward on the table again, scooting over to make room for others should they move over. "I've settled in well enough, ma'am. And met the various characters of the Weyr. Dubious and all."

Jairen grins, "Glad to hear Delia is doing well, and D'ru, and P'wert. I miss them terribly." She blinks at Satiet, "Meaningless chores? They are not meaningless, they serve an important purpose... Keeping the score of useless layabouts like us out from underfoot fo the normal weyrfolk." A smile is offered to Amarie, as well. "Ahh, you are the one Cari nabbed from the beasthold? Did she faint while she was there? You should have seen her the day I had to clean stables..."

"That sounds like him," Amarie nods her head at Satiet. "V'lano was always a very giving person, at least since I knew him." She smiles, her eyes looking somewhat distant as if smiling at a memory from long ago. She knows him well it seems. Coming out of her reverie, she asks, "What's that? Oh no," She shakes her head, "She didn't faint while we were there thank Faranth."

Caritha gives Amarie a questioning look at the mention of the Telgari's name, "You know V'lano? He's very nice, but I suppose its hard for him, splitting time between here at Telgar. I was sorry to have missed it but I'd been stuck on late sweeps that day and turned in right afterwards, though I do have to admit that I love sunset over the ocean is one of my favorite times to be flying. Semirath's too." She sits down right near M'rek and Satiet and pats the seat beside her in invite for the girl from the BeastCraft hall, before grinning at M'rek, "That is true, you were able to escape punishment then, but I'm guessing it was your awe of Ulfianth. Or the fact that you weren't able to get to Bitra For since you've graduated, you do indeed seem to have reached new heights in mischief... or at least bar hopping." Her tone of voice is light and teasing, and she adds, "Though I need to thank you for introducing me to some of my favorite drinks. We ought to go together again some time to Ista or the Lava longuge."

M'rek listens, chuckling occasionally, "Eggs, painting and sand? V'lano having trouble with Jos then?" He doesn't sound surprised and, in fact, hides a broader grin behind one hand before he slides all of his hidework down and picks the pen back up to freshen it with more ink and work a little more on his report in an idle fashion. Caritha is given a glance, "Aye. Going to Bitra always brings something out in me, I suppose. Couldn't get there really until Ulfianth could fly. But anyway. Aye. We can go drinking again sometime if you like, Caritha. Maybe even The Even Odds for variety." Then a question, "Who's been getting sick?"

Satiet's snort isn't very lady-like, and it's a good thing she's not drinking else it spew forward. "They're meaningless enough in that they won't do anyone any good. The Weyr won't collapse if we don't perform them, otherwise it'd have collapsed every time there weren't eggs on the sand. Tell me you wouldn't prefer to do the jobs you did when you were at home? Amarie," a sharp incline of her head indicates the taller candidate, "Could do assistant headwoman-type duties here and she'd be productive, right?" She shifts, discomforted and then swings out on the other side of the bench, getting to her feet languidly, "It was more a problem with the clutch mother, I'm assuming than the weyrwoman. It didn't concern me." Which isn't to say she wasn't listening. "When you do find anything for me, sir, I'm easily found. Barracks, somewhere here on the ground, whereas you're not. I'll be waiting." Hands clasp behind her back, pulling away for a mild stretch. "Good evening, I'll see you two later then." The last meant for the dishwasher and the listener.

Jairen rolls her eyes at the other Candidate, "If a few people don't do chores at all, the weyr won't collapse... But does that make it ok?" She shrugs as Satiet leaves. She turns back to her chore, seemingly more determined to do it well. "Some people, I tell you. No sense of pulling their own weight."

"Good night Satiet," Amarie grins at the girl. She peers at M'rek as if trying to place him from that night at the bar in Boll.

Caritha giggles along with M'rek and nods, "I could see Jos having some issues with some of the eggs. This clutch isn't quite as blindingly bright as ours was. Thank Faranth that Semirath hatched from one of the few normal eggs in ours, nice and simple and black." She winks at Satiet, whispering conspiratorily, "I'm rather in agreement with you but they seem to think it builds character or something. Just find some stupid boys who are willing to trade for some of the more distateful chores and you'll do just fine." She looks back at Jai and grins, "You've been too well trained you know." M'rek's comment about the even odds is then remembered, "I'd like htat. Did you once, way back over a turn ago, say you'd teach me how to play some of the games there? Or was that Elinore? Some of them did look interesting, but not the ones that were purely luck..."

M'rek waves to Satiet as she heads out, "Aye. I'm sure I'll find you when I've got what's needed. Should be tomorrow or the day after." Then he bends his head to write another line before he feels Amarie's eyes upon him and he glances back her way, "I think you left with V'lano that night. I was drinking with Kassima and some others. Was a bit of an encounter, but no bloodshed. Though, maybe you missed that part." He sums up that particular evening and then cuts his eyes back over to Caritha, "That." He slants his eyes at the greenrider in a look that's akin to concern, "Must have been Elinore. Though, I can certainly teach poker and the like."

You brush the hides aside and step into the lower caverns.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

Logs:Settling In at the Reaches

2014-11-22T04:45:07Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Amarie, Carianna, Rylla, Satiet, Th'res |what= |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |when=day 10, month 8, turn 1, interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.21 |quote= |weather..."

{{Log
|who=Amarie, Carianna, Rylla, Satiet, Th'res
|what=
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|when=day 10, month 8, turn 1, interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.21
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Diving Cliff

The afternoon sun wans along the western rim of the bowl, the rays casting a golden light tinged with rose onto the waters below. Far below, the shores are scattered with the various people setting up for the summer barbecue, their laughter heard in an errant breeze here and there. Standing on the edge of the precipice, arms flung out wide, a damp looking Satiet stands by herself, her blue undertunic dripping with remnant lake water. With her head tipped back to catch those last rays, she calls up brightly, "Glorious, glorious sunlight." It's the closest point to the skies from the ground apparently, and she's taking as much advantage of it as she can.

Amarie
She has full, wavy, below the shoulder-length hair that has been lightened to golden brown by the sun. The soft tresses look as if they want to curl or frizz, but aren't sure which to do just yet. Her hair frames a youthful face, oval in shape with a sweetheart jaw line and chin. Her cheekbones have become prominent on her face, rosy colored from an ever-present blush that's gives color to an otherwise pale face. Brown lashes frame her large, gray-green eyes. Her nose, like so many of her family members, is slightly up tilted and short. And there, on her lips, hidden in the right hand corner of her mouth is a secret kiss, belonging only to one person. They part in a smile to reveal slightly larger teeth, that make it look like she has an overbite to them.

Her 5'6" frame is curvy and healthy looking. She's wearing a cotton white shirt that buttons up the front to her collar. It is long sleeved and there's a white Candidate knot tied at the shoulder. She wears a soft beige print skirt that's got a split for riding in the middle. She wears ankle high boots beneath that skirt. She wears no jewelry or ornamental decoration. She appears to be 16 Turns, 10 months, and 11 days.
Carrying:
Slightly
Tinker

"Come on everyone let's go jump!" A group of older teens, some candidates and some not head up towards the cliffs for diving. Amarie is one of them. As they climb, her eyes get bigger and bigger, the grey outshadowing the green in them. "I don't think I want to," she says as they get higher and higher, seeming to chicken out.

Satiet's arms lower, her hands going to the hem of her tunic and wringing the excess water out. Distractedly, she glances over her shoulder at the approaching group of candidates, the barest flicker of annoyance on her delicate features. Her head shakes, droplets flung out from her hair at the movement, and she inches away from the precipice, allowing the others to converge and jump should they wish to. In the process, an eyebrow lifts, her attention caught by Amarie. She calls down congenially enough, though a dark shadow clouds her blue eyes. "It's not as high as it looks."

"Ah..." Amarie doesn't look certain. As those brave souls start jumping over the edge of the cliff, she ventures closer and looks down the several dragon lengths to where ripples appear in the water before the people do. Her eyes nearly cross and she backs away a bit.

A twitchy smile surfaces on Satiet's lips, her arms crossing over her chest. "Or you don't have to jump, whatever." Feigning disinterest, the dark haired girl takes a few baby steps back to the edge and peers down, the aftermaths of a particularly stout candidate's splash flicking upward towards her feet. "You'd think dragons wouldn't pick the fat ones." The thin sleeves of her tunic are rolled down, the soft fabric billowing in the breeze. "They'd see someone that chubby and think of how it'd weigh on their backs, but I suppose it wouldn't matter so much. They seem to carry excess loads well." She wanders over to Amarie, casting the other girl a studied look. "Candidate?"

Amarie nods her head at Satiet in answer to her question. "The dragons pick who they pick," she says evenly as if not in agreement with the statement about the chubby ones. She stands more towards the rocks of the plateau than the edge. "Are you a candidate?" she asks Satiet.

"Oh, I suppose I am. I have a knot and all, and.." her pointed chin lifts a fraction, bringing her entire stance somewhat taller and straighter to add inches to her slight height. "I've seen you in the barracks, I think. Satiet, Tillek. You?" Assessment brightens the pale gaze, the other candidate receiving a quick once over, approval skipping through her eyes at the clothing. Satiet gestures to the edge, a dare flicking in her blue eyes, "Are you -scared-? Or do you just not know how to swim?"

"Neither," Amarie says though her voice would lead one to believe otherwise. "I'm Amarie. From Beastcraft. Are you the one who sleep over in the cot by Jairen's?" she asks. "Because there's someone there with the same dark hair as yours."

"Craftbred. I don't believe you. But that's fine. I'm sure if you're scared, it's easier not to live up to the fact that you are scared." Satiet replies, an unpleasant burr of condescension distant in the overall friendly tones. Her hand waves offhandedly, as if it's possible to physically push the subject away. "Perhaps. Too many of us to bother remembering who's who, I suppose." Satiet relents a bit however, the inflection of her voice changing as does her stance to be more open towards the other girl, "I think it's Jairen anyway. Have you met many of us yet?"

"No I don't think so," Amarie shakes her head. "Well I met Jairen the night I came in because she was awake. I know the people who I've been assigned chores with since I've been here but I'm not much of a talker when I'm working." She creeps over towards the edge. "You jump first," she says as if she might follow.

"I've already jumped, and I'd rather be dry when I meet other people in the Weyr." Satiet jerks her head sharply down to the beach, "Dinner's outside today, I heard. It's only polite to look your best, within reason, and I'm afraid dripping wet isn't one of them." As such, the tangled locks of her now only slightly damp hair is bunched up onto her head and pinned through with a clip from her pockets. "You should keep away from Linnea," she comments blithely, "I've heard she doesn't bathe very often. But it wouldn't be nice to tell her that, see."

"Mmm," Amarie agrees with a nod. She looks at Satiet a moment before saying, "I think I'll walk down then. No sense in getting wet before the dinner." She inclines her head a moment saying, "Nice to have met you." And turns to begin walking down the way she came up. There's a few rough patches where she might almost slip off, but she manages on her feet.

The look Satiet casts Amarie is thoughtful, the tug of her lips downward not altogether pleased, but after a while, she too follows after, pulling on her loose summer sweater on the way down. "Hey, wait up! I'll walk down with you." Bare feet skitter along the dirt, pace quickening until she comes up near the other girl.

In the sky above, Cibeth launches into the sky from Cibeth's ledge, low on the Eastern bowl wall.
In the sky above, Cibeth flies down to land gently at the lake shore.

You walk down the path leading back to the lake shore. After tracing the line of the bowl wall for a few dragonlengths, it turns north and winds its way between rocks and boulders before opening up to the lake shore.

Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
This shoreline marks the edge of the freshwater lake that fills the southeastern portion of the bowl. The gritty dirt of the bowl gives way to smooth sand. Dragons adore diving from high above into the lake's deep center, often imploring to their lifemates to bathe them with sweetsand. Humans and firelizards alike frequently fish from these clear waters, which are abundantly stocked.
Across the lake, the bowl wall rises high into the sky, its face dotted with weyr entrances. A few dragonlengths above the water, glimpses of a level cliff can be seen amidst boulders lining the edge. Just south of here, a smaller pond of water is divided from the main lake by a natural bridge of land. A path leads across the bridge and up to the diving cliffs, winding through a dotting of small boulders on its way.
The early evening crystal clear as the sun sets over the western rim of the bowl. There is a light breeze that ripples across the lake.
Contents:
Rylla
Cibeth
A firepit
Carianna
Scrap3
Obvious exits:
LAke Pond Diving Cliff Bowl

Amarie comes down from the winding path to the diving cliffs.
Amarie has arrived.

Rylla doesn't look overly impressed about having to eat on the beach. After a few grumbles she heads off to stroll along the lake shore.

Carianna chuckles, shaking her head lightly. "Looks like she hasn't changed any over the turns." She gives the matter little thought after that as the cooking pit is stocked with wood.

Satiet ambles down from the diving cliffs, her pace unhurried as she skitters down the last little bit of incline from the steps. She's close at the other candidate's heels, the dampness of a dive a few hours previous still lingering in her hair and the slip of tunic visible beneath her sweater. "How long've you been here then? Amarie, was it?" Bare toes rake idly through the little bit of sandy shoreline the lake offers, her destination the people gathering for tonight's dinner.

Amarie ventures down from the diving cliffs, perfectly dry and not at all water-bound as some were up there on the plateau. "A few days now," Amarie says to Satiet. "Nearly a sevenday I think." She smiles, "Caritha and Semirath are the ones that brought me here from Beastcraft."

Rylla turns about as voices are heard, her had inclining in a silence greeting to the pair of Candidates. Otherwise she seems to not pay too much attention to anyone.

Carianna kneels and offers Dzzie a small bit of firestone. Standing back, she nods to the little bronze lizard then watches as he flames the wood, setting it ablaze. Carefully more wood is added and embers begin to glow with heat as hickory fills the air.

From the firepit, Sparks snap loudly as the flames lick across the logs and kindling. Slowly the fire settles into a steady stream of heat allowing the arriving kitchen apprentices to place a cooking grill over the heated red embers.

"Karimina and Psamanth picked me up at Tillek." Satiet comments, her nose twitching at the smell of fire hitting wood. The small shoulders bunch up appreciatively and she expels a soft sigh. "Bonfires are wonderful things, especially on beaches, but I suppose, being from the Beastcraft, you've never seen much of a real bonfire, have you?" After checking to make sure that she's keeping apace with Amarie, her gaze drifts towards the other people gathering, pausing with a quirked brow at a group of children playing tag along the shores.

"Why wouldn't I have?" Amarie asks, "We have barbecue pits at Beastcraft." Apparently playing this game of 'have you never' she's good at. "And I suppose you've never been around the Hall in the middle of a heated fall, when the blood of culled animals runs fresh all over the ground." Oh yum. Ruin that appetite.

Rylla's nose wrinkles as the littles pass by her. After a shiver she turns and makes her way back towards the gathering group. "Eew! Satiet isn't it? I would hardly call that proper lady like conversation to bring up just before we're about to dine." She casts a quick glance towards the baker then adds with a lowering of her voice, "Besides you don't want to give the bakers any idea's."

Cook arrives with a large tray of skewered kabobs and an arrangement of sauces which are offered to each apprentice. Slowly the robust woman silently lays out the skewers of cubed beef, tomatoes, tubers, mushrooms, and peppers on the grill to BBQ. Once completed her task, Cook nods to those around before heading back to the weyr's kitchen.

Carianna chuckles again after wiping her hands on her apron. "Don't worry about it. She's done worse, believe me."

The dark-haired girl's attention is pulled away at the game made of her comments, and a dark smile curves the corners of her lips quickly. "I've gutted fish. It's not quite as messy as bovine, but can be slimier. I've seen mountains of fish flopping on the deck all scaley. But that's neither a conversation for now or here." Satiet's chin lifts loftily, expression flat, though she still sticks to Amarie's side. Every so often, a surreptitious glance sneaks over to assess the other candidate. "It's rude to try and make someone feel squeamish right before a meal." Her steps do halt at Rylla's approach and her face colors up quickly. "-I'm- Satiet, she's Amarie. If you're going to be scolding anyone, it's only right to scold the right person. Ma'am." The last word is tacked on stiffly after a quick glance at the knot that rests on the greenrider's shoulder.

"And it's rude to try to make a candidate feel stupid," Amarie counters with. But it's not mean-spirited, more like she's got a younger sister she's bantering with. "Hello Greenrider ma'am," Amarie says to Rylla. "I am Amarie and that is a very nice tunic you have there." She looks down at the green tunic with the ivy trim. "Very nice threadwork done there."

Rylla's ire lessons quickly as her hand lifts to brush against the embroidery. "Do you really like it Darlin'? I did it myself you know. Just one of the many talents I brought with me from the time before I was ever searched." Lifting her gaze she comments to Satiet, "You can't blame me for getting a few names mixed up no can you? With so many of your Candidates running about its bound to happen from time to time."

Tables are quickly set up to serve the multitude of foods, as drudges appear and softly converse amongst themselves as they work. Soon large serving bowls of tossed salads, dressings, trays of deviled eggs, pickled beets, roasted porcine, grilled fish and corn on the cob are displayed.

Carianna mans the kabobs on the grill then calls out to the Candidates with a Laugh, "Just don't ask her to take on Feeding grounds detail. She thought it meant feeding the penned animals freshly baked bread and serving them wine."

"I'm sure, ma'am. But I rather like my name. It fits me." The flush remains high on her cheeks, but her voice takes on a less indignant intonation in her reply to Rylle. She's silent for a moment longer as Amarie compliments the greenrider, before also offering her own greeting to greenrider and baker, "Evening." About to continue towards the fire and the smell of food drifting from Carianna's direction, Satiet blinks, a second lingering look afforded the other candidate - a double take if you will - before her expression lightens and soft laughter bubbles from her throat. "I dare say, you've a tongue to match your looks, Amarie of the Beastcraft. You'll have dinner with me then tonight? Are you an apprentice there?

"I really do like it ma'am," Amarie nods. "Good needlework should always be appreciated and if you're the one that did it, I think I know who to come here for help with my own threadwork." She smiles at Rylla and says, "Amongst other things I've been told to come to the candidate leaders about." She nods at Satiet and says, "I'll eat with you. I'm not an apprentice no. I'm currently on hiatus from being the Assistant Headwoman. If I don't impress, Headwoman Kaye will give me my job back I hope."

Rylla's angelic smile is bestowed to Amarie but the baker's words make it vanished quickly. "Another honest mistake." The greenrider defends. "How was I suppose to know they actually thought I'd touch beastie parts?" Taking a look along the shore line again, Rylla heads back in that direction now that the littles have wandered off.

A misted spray of water erupts as a wave hits the shoreline making a few of the lower cavern girls giggle and rush closer to the lake to frolic in the evening tide, making a multi-colored rainbow appear to arc over the lakeshore.

Carianna watches Rylla head off again then winks towards the girls. "Don't mind her. She's a pain at times but if you say out of her way she'll be tolerable."

Amarie looks a little confused by the double conversation taking place between herself and Rylla, herself and Satiet, and the one between Carianna and Rylla. "She didn't seem like a pain to me," Amarie informs Carianna. Heading towards the fire spits she asks, "What are they cooking?" Checking the spits out.

"Assistant Headwoman? You don't look that old though." Once again caught a bit off guard, Satiet's eyes widen fractionally at Amarie's answer. "I suppose though, headwoman have to train up from when they're young too," she muses aloud, finally reaching Carianna's side. The discussion of feeding grounds duty is given due regard, mostly by her grimacing, but is ignored in favor of happier things, like leaning forward to sniff in the scent of barbecued meat appreciatively. "It smells delicious." She peeks up at the journeywoman baker with a half-smile, "My mother could never work with meat like this." The dark-haired girl nods, watching Rylla's retreat towards the children, "Honest mistake, I'm sure."

Rylla heads out of ear shot from the gathering seeming to dismiss them for a spell as she makes her way further down the waterfront.

Carianna laughs. "That's what we all said when it happened. Did I hear correctly? Your Satiet? That must make you Amarie then? She asks both girls with a warm smile. "Thank you. As for what's cooking, there will be a variety of grilled foods tonight. I'm working on the kabobs at the moment. The Porcine was done earlier and soon the cobs of corn will be added. "Do either of you enjoy cooking?"

"I'm nearly seventeen," Amarie informs Satiet. "How old are you?" She turns and with what could be an almost impertinent smile says, "No I'm Satiet and she's Amarie," Pointing at Satiet. "Cooking is alright," Amarie waves a hand in a so-so motion. "I prefer planning the menus with our cooks instead of actually cooking though."

Littles are gather by the pond, cheering on one brave lad trying to catch tadpoles with his bowl. Nanny, watching over them is busy explaining to a three turn old girl that the tadpoles are not to be eaten as she washes the girl's tongue with a damp cloth.

Satiet continues flatly, "Though what bovines will do with wine, I'm not sure. It could've been intentional," she remarks, watching Rylle from a safe distance. "Satiet." Pleased, her blue eyes flick towards Carianna, shadowing a bit at Amarie's exclamation. "Or what she said. Because we're so easily indiscernible." But make merry and do as happier people do, and so a cheerful smile is forced out, a finger reaching out to test the ends of one of the kabob sticks, coming up quickly to her lips. "Hot." Around her finger, she considers Amarie, "Past seventeen, and no, I actually prefer eating to cooking, but girls should never eat too much."

"Careful Satiet, they are indeed hot." Cari warns lightly. A tong is used as each skewer is turned carefully. "Your both the same age? What a coincidence. So tell me, have you both managed to settle in comfortably in the barracks?"

Drudges begin to pass around to the guests, small plates of carbo mousse with a delicate crescent pastry on the side. Murmurs of thanks are voiced as band of littles reach out eagerly for their dessert with wide eyes and opened mouths.

"May I have two of those kabobs please?" Amarie asks, "Steak bits preferrably." She looks at Satiet and says, "I wouldn't have guessed you to be older than I am." Amarie takes one of the plates of carbo mousse with a thank you to the drudge giving it.

"Not much older," Satiet remarks pleasantly. "And judging age based on height and looks, I suppose isn't very wise." Her hand reaches out again for a kabob and then halts, a sheepish look on her face, "I suppose I should wait." From behind her, a high-pitched voice calls out her name, and the dark-haired girl glances back, rolling her eyes slightly, "I'll be back, eh, Amarie, baker ma'am." Dipping her head towards the latter, she goes over to meet a small crowd of giggly girls.

(Later on!)

"Not always. My family moved around. We settled at Keroon for a tiny bit before we moved to the Hall. Dad wanted to change his Journeyman knot into a Craftmaster's knot," Amarie informed. "Plus he wanted to be closer to the place of his youth I think."

Th'res nods "it is good to spend time where you have good memories" he looks around abit and grins "that is why I love coming back the the weyr"

Amarie nods. She looks like she'd want to say more, but someone comes up to her, another candidate saying, "Amarie, Rylla says she wants to see you /now/." With the emphasis on the now, making it sound urgent. Amarie stands to her feet. "I wonder she wants?" She looks confused as to why she'd be wanted.

High in the bowl, Lysseth circles lower in the bowl, towards the western wall.

Laughter and vivacious chatter can be heard from the shore near the steps up to the diving cliff and Satiet's slight figure can be seen speaking animatedly to a group of other girls, a mix of candidates and residents. Every so often a smirk tugs lopsided on one corner of her lip, especially when one of the other girls speaks, and a look of complete boredom mars her delicate features. "You -would- say something like that, anyway..." And even as she chatters, when she passes by the dwindling crowd at the barbecue, she wiggles her fingers towards a familiar face, "I'll see you later, Amarie." A cordial nod is afforded the brownrider.

You wander north towards the main bowl area.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

Logs:Caritha, Daddy's Girl

2014-11-22T04:38:18Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Caritha, Satiet |what= |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |when=day 6, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.20 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons..."

{{Log
|who=Caritha, Satiet
|what=
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|when=day 6, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.20
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 23:31 on day 6, month 8, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer evening.

You wander towards the lake shore.
Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr

In the sky directly above, Semirath swoops down to a landing at the lake shore.
Semirath has arrived.

Caritha hops down Semirath's side to the ground, as the dragon rumbles softly.
Caritha has arrived.

Reflected in the lake water is the bright glimmer of one of Pern's moons, leading the trailing edge of the three fixtures of the sky - the Dawn Sisters. Quiet now, the bustle of energy that surfaced earlier gone, the lake is still, with the exception of a few couples chatting softly, and one lone figure sitting along the sandy shores. A rock skips across the lake, *hop* *hop* *hop* before sinking, and the hand that threw it falls into Satiet's lap. Talking to herself, running through a mental checklist it seems, her alto voice is clear, if soft, "Chores, done. Linnea, done. Pants, on the way to being mended. What's a girl to do?" Boredom settles in the blue eyes as she flicks a glance this way and that towards various people, before falling backwards onto her hands.

Caritha is quiet as she dismounts from Semirath's back in an empty spot along the lake shore. The green dragon doesn't appear to be satisfied with her landing spot as a resting place and moves her way along the shore a bit, accompanied by her rider. Finally she settles herself just so and Caritha stops to pull down a blanket that was attached to the dragon's flying straps. Before laying it down, she hears a voice and then spots the white of a candidate knot and hestitates before finally closing the short distance, "Good evening. I don't believe we've met, Caritha, green Semirath's rider. Is everything okay?"

Caritha
Caritha stands 5'9" tall and is graceful in both appearance and manner, carrying herself with pride born of her parentage and awareness that she is quite an attractive young lady of 16 turns. Her bright blue eyes and fair skin are in stark contrast to her black curly hair which is now cut to chin length; the long mane of curls that was her pride and joy gone since weyrlinghood. She has found a use for all of her hair ribbons, using them to keep her hair out of her face when she is working at her duties, or just to add a splash of colour to compliment her attire. She looks like a young version of Matheny, with her boyish and athletic figure, though her choice of clothing (the most feminine apparel she can find) and personal obsession with tidiness are in stark contrast with her mother.

While nary a wrinkle is to be seen on her clothing, Caritha's current ensemble is far more functional than fashionable . Her navy blue skirt is cut full, not restricting her movement, and has deep pockets. Her shirt is light blue and she wears the sleeves rolled up (in neat cuffs) when indoors to keep them from getting dirty. When outdoors, her riding jacket with its Blizzard wing badge is added to the ensemble. A knot indicating that she is a HRW greenrider sits on her shoulders.

Satiet props herself back up to a more straightened position, her motions languid and unhurried. The voice prompts her to look up, gaze straying to the knot first, and then the dragon not far behind before she replies breezily, "Unless the cooks decided how I meat in preparation for tomorrow's meal is unsatisfactory, I would say there's absolutely nothing wrong except..." her lips twitch, "You wouldn't, by chance, have anything to drink would you? Besides the watered down wine in the caverns." She pauses, inspecting Caritha through that lazy stare, and compliments dryly, "You have lovely hair. Ma'am." For now, her name is unmentioned, the knot on her shoulder doing enough talking as to her status compared to the greenrider's.

Caritha shakes her head, "No, sorry. Though there is plenty of other things to drink in the living caverns if you look about. My preferance personally is Nabolese cider if I'm drinking something other than klah." She doesn't sit down, seeing as the candidate hasn't even introducted herself, but she smiles and a faint blush appears on her cheeks at the compliment, "Thank you. Have you been here long now? I admit I'm not here at the Reaches all that often with my free time as of late so I've rather lost track of how many candidates have come."

A charming smile finds its way to her lips, the candidate in question slowly pushing herself to her feet. Idle hands brush the sand off the back of her pants. Satiet's head tilts, her own dark hair, albeit shorter, spilling over her shoulder a few inches. Blue eyes clear in the darkness, the greenrider is given another once over. "A little over a sevenday, perhaps almost two? I think I've lost count now. A girl in the barracks has been tallying the days on a scrap of hide since she got here. I find it a waste of time. Things'll happen in their own setting." One corner of her lips drops in a look of ill- hidden dismay in regards to the drink selections, "Ah well, I'll make do with what's offered in the caverns then I suppose. A little nip here and there isn't too bad for the soul you know." After a pause, where her lips purse out, she finally offers, "Satiet. Of Tillek, or near enough to Tillek to not matter much. You're a Reaches rider and you don't spend time at your home?"

Caritha chuckles as she spread out her blanket on the ground, the blush on her cheeks deepening a bit, "P'wert... my weyrmate, is from Igen. He's an assitant werylingmaster there and so his schedule is really busy at the moment, with the weyrling class. Though now that its summer, he's trying to spend his free time here as I just cannot tolerate the heat there." Watching the girl get to her feet, she offers her hand in greeting, "Well met. Where exactly from in the Tillek region? My parents families are from Tillek and so I was fostered there once for two turns, but last summer spent over a month there as posted watchrider. The seashore there is even more soothing than the lakeshore here when it conmes to a place to sit and think."

"Sea's Peak. It's a little ways down along the shore." Satiet offers, hand reaching out instinctively to pass over the greenrider's. The hand is quick then to come up and brush hair out of her face, the tousled locks pushed behind her ears. "Two days by runner? A couple more by caravan. Sometimes Tillek allows us a watchrider to bring in our tithes to the Lord Holder, especially when fresher fish will best serve the Hold." A grimace mars the candidate's delicate features, her cheeks tightening a bit at some unvoiced thought. It clears momentarily, the watchful look placed on Caritha at odds with the knowing smirk on her lips, "In any case, I wasn't aware you were allowed to weyr.. mate cross Weyrs like that. It must make it considerably difficult even if you can wink here and there in three heartbeats." Cajoling tones, intended to draw out more envelop each of the dark haired girl's words.

Caritha wrinkles her nose at the mention of the fresh fish, nodding in agreement with your grimace, blitheyly assuming that it must be for the same reason as she is wincing "Yes, I'm aware that they sometimes let riders do that - in fact I was suck on that duty just last sevenday though not from Sea's peak. Took hours of scrubbing to get the smell out of Semirath's hide. I really don't understand how Rose could ever touch those things, let alone have fun going fishing. Or how you holders survive." She considers your next question with a goofy grin, "No, there are no rules about weyrmating at all. As long as it doens't interfere with your duties, riders are free to live their personal lives as they see fit. I won't deny its difficult - I wish P'wert would consider transferring here but Igen is his home, at least since he was 15 or 16 turns I believe. And they aren't likely to grant him a transfer. And I could never leave here, nor would my father ever let me, not for love."

Satiet steps backwards, tipping her head back to look up at the sky. Casually, she comments, "Night hits Igen 'fore it hits the Reaches. I wonder, if you're so in love, why you're here speaking with me instead of with.. P'wert." The hesitation before the name is entirely intentional, the inflection placed on the word a brand of innocent curiosity. In regards to fish, the girl is remarkably silent, the twitch at the corners of her lips obliging to Caritha's comments. It's at the remark on holders that a flush of indignance rises along the girl's neck. "Holders survive well enough," a sharp slant hinting initially at her otherwise pleasantly spoken words. "We have enough to eat and live with. We have to, don't you think? Or else the Weyrs would get a pittance for tithes." - "Your father can forbid you a transfer?"

Caritha settles herself down on the blanket, she's not about to take any chances at getting her clothing sandy. Looking up at the girl, she pats the spot next to her, "I meant Tillek holders having to put up with the smell of all that fish all the time. and how slimy it feels. Just not my thing, though fresh roasted fish does make good eating, I can't deny it." She then sighs, "He's on late duty, can't leave Igen or even the area of the barracks for another 2 candlemarks. And I'm not about to get him into trouble by letting Semirath go distract him or anything. Besides, it was good to have some time to clean up in my weyr and stuff here." As for your last remark, she raises an eyebrow, "Of course he can. He's the only one that gets to authorize transfers here after all, and for all that I'm his little girl and usually manage to wrap him around my pinkie, he's not going to let anyone accuse him of playing favorites with me when he's denied others in the past. And I don't think I'd want to leave here anyway, this is home, after all. Always has been."

"Oh." Ruffled feathers retreat, and the flush rises a bit further along her cheeks. Satiet's view of the lake pauses, her head canting towards Caritha, subtle movements of fingers stretching against the black of her pants, and her forehead knitting in thought. Stupid, she is not, and one and one is put together quite quickly. "I see." The two words are innocuous enough, the soft gleeful purr wrapped around them not quite so angelic. But a smile is offered quick enough towards the other girl, one that hints only along the trace chapped marks of her lips, and along her cheeks, failing to light up her eyes. A few minute levels of respect filter through her intonation, the greenrider giving one last studious glance. "I'm afraid if I don't wish to get into blatant trouble, I should head back to the barracks. Candidate curfew calls, early morning tomorrow, see." About to head back, to the Weyr, her slow strides halt, and she fashions a brighter smile over her shoulder for Semirath's rider, white teeth pale against the shadows of her features. "I wish you luck with your weyrmate." A breath of a pause, "Ma'am. Good night to you."

Caritha smiles, offering up a wave, "Good luck with that. Definitely don't get in trouble with Rylla, she's not worth it - just compliment her hair or clothing or something if you ever need to try to get out of any trouble." She then grins, "And no need to call me ma'am, just Caritha. I'm probably not more than a turn older than you if that after all. Or have they changed the rules and said you have to say ma'am even when we ask you not to? I know as weyrlings they enforced that but as candidates they were more lax."
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

Logs:Don't You Know Anything?

2014-11-22T04:35:27Z

Satiet:

{{Log
|who=Bidran, Lexiana, Linnea, Rachiel, Satiet
|what=
|where=Lower Caverns
|when=day 6, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.20
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 19:37 on day 6, month 8, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer evening.

You stride through the archway, into the lower caverns.
Lower Caverns(#1090RJs)

One of the glow baskets next to you flickers a bit and then becomes steady again.

Rachiel walks through the archway, from the living cavern.

Rachiel
Standing at 4'3'', Rachiel is average in height. She is average in her weight. Her eyes are of a light blue shade. Her skin is a light brown shade, as if she has worked outside for long periods of time. Her hair is also a light brown and is waist length. Although not visible, she has some muscle, and, when needed, she can lift a heavy load. Her age is ). She wears a light tan shirt with dark tan pants. Her hair is held up with a strip of light blue cloth, and her boots are made of wherhide.
Carrying:
Bag of marbles
Gitar

Evening's approach to the Weyr is marked by a setting sun outside, however those inside are given indication by the changing of the glows. A large basket is held along her forearm, the other arm reaching up to drop a few glows into one of the various baskets that light up the cavern. Slowly, one by one, each basket receives more glows, brightening the room for those who are finishing up work. In the corner, a pair of dragonriders sit playing cards and their raucous laughter lifts up above most of the other noises. With a smile playing on her lips, Satiet steps over towards the game, joining the small crowd watching the game.

Rachiel walks into the cavern holding a piece of hide in one hand and her giter carefully in the other.

"You should get out, rider," Satiet remarks, her alto quiet but well-pitched so her intended target, the bluerider she's standing behind, can hear it. "Those cards aren't going to get you anywhere good." She stands their, hip swinging to one side to rest the basket against, her gaze strays from the game to the numerous passersby, a short girl with an instrument catching her eye. Another smile floats to her lips, and she lifts her hand to wiggle fingers in a wave towards the girl.

Rachiel notices Satiet and walks over to her and says, "Hello."

For now, her attention diverges from the game towards the approaching girl, and a half-welcoming smile is fashioned onto her lips. It's a half-hearted attempt at best, a trifle forced. "Evening. You play the gitar?" Satiet's blue eyes rest on the instrument held in the girl's hand, "Or are you running an errand for a harper?"

Rachiel looks at Satiet and says, "I can play, but I don't run errand for the harper."

Satiet's lips thin, the smile of seconds prior, a ghost on her features. Dark brows draw together as she considers the instrument again in silence, a nod finally accompanying her expression. "It must have cost your parents quite a few marks to get that for you." Her voice softens, and now outright ignoring the game, she takes a few steps forward, leaning forward to be on eye-level with the girl. "You must be quite talented? Are you thinking of becoming a harper?" Her lips part in a pause of sudden thought, and she laughs, "I talk about manners and yet I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. Satiet." The name pronounced as say-shet. "High Reaches duties, little one."

Rachiel looks at the game and then back to Satiet, "I earned the marks on my own, I think about becoming a harper but i'm happy here in the weyr."

Surprise darkens the blue of Satiet's eyes and she blinks a few times. "Faranth, if I could've earned that many marks when I was as young as you are, I'd be a Lady Holder by now." The lighthearted tease of the girl's intonation escapes in an unchecked giggle. "Have you lived at the Weyr long then? Born here, raised here? Know all the nooks and crannies to get lost in?"

Rachiel giggles and says, "I know of a few secret places here. I was raised in Telgar Hold, until about a turn ago."

"Telgar Hold?" Satiet looks over her shoulder, a sudden yelp of triumph from the game causing her to smirk. "Looks like I was ride. You shouldn't have bet that last round, I -told- you." Self-important confidence displays in the uptilt of her right eyebrow, before she turns back to Rachiel, smug. "So why are you here? Did your parents come to the Weyr, or were you fostered?"

(Rachiel had to leave so we ended this scene here.)

Rachiel meanders up the stairs to the residents' quarters.
Rachiel has left.

Lexiana strolls in through the archway from the bowl.
Lexiana has arrived.

Rachiel wanders down the stairs from the residents' quarters.
Rachiel has arrived.

Bidran meanders through the archway, from the living cavern.
Bidran has arrived.

Linnea meanders in through the archway from the bowl.
Linnea has arrived.

The crowd in the lower caverns has grown, various people finishing up projects here and there across the work tables, while an exuberant card game is being held in the far corner. Satiet has returned to her spot near the game, low words being murmured as she watches, and bobbling head keeping track of the cards that are being played. "The greenrider'll win next round," she predicts idly, drawing out an indulgent smile on those older around her. Over her right arm, a large basket of glows is held, her evening chore being neglected for this side distraction.

As dinner ends, more people filter in from the living caverns, pausing to catch up with acquaintances on their way back to their rooms. Half the cavern is lit with fresh glows, while the other half is still slightly dark.

Bidran walks in from the Living Cavern with food still in his hands, startled by the crowd in the Lower Caverns, he drops a breadroll. Blinking, he picks it up and blows off the dirt.

This stranger with a Brownrider Fort knot walks into the living carven with a large bag thrown across her shoulder. Looking around, she spots a male candidate walking sweeping up next to the hearth. She waves the boy over and Tonver bows. "Duties brownrider. How may I help you?" She leans down and says some short hushed words and the hands the bag over to him. He bounces off with his buddle.

Linnea, freshly bathed and her clothing freshly cleaned and dried, dodges some unruly escaping children who come up to about her elbows as she comes in, making a mildly irate face. "Be careful, young ones," she chides to their backs as they move out of sight. "Gracious. No manners, at all." That noted, she folds her arms over her chest, and surveys the rest of the scene, remaining still for the moment to take in the others present, noting the group playing cards and those nearby.

Bidran is startled again as he sees the Fort knot on Lexiana's shoulder.

Satiet is so intent on the game, that the other incomings are given passing regards. Fingers stretch out, the soft pop of a knuckle barely discernible in the din of noise. "Games in the bag," she murmurs again, waiting for the final card turnover by studying each of the player's expressions. A nervous tic along the side of a Reaches brownrider's face causes the candidate's grin to twitch sardonically. "It's over." Easing herself off the wall, the raven- haired girl pushes her way out from the crowd gently, casting a rueful look backwards, "Should've bet on who'd win. Ah well." Now out from the crowd, she observes the other people in the caverns, offering a casual nod towards Linnea, "Hey, nursery duty?"

Lexiana stretches out her arms a bit as her heavy burden has been lifted. Smiling at those that give there greetings, she walks over to the drink table and reaches for the klah pot. However, she just frowns at the pot because alas it is empty. Sighing, she mutter something about 'great... just been one of those days.'

Linnea, free of the rabble of running children, looks around for the source of the voice, momentarily confused. "Sorry? What was...oh. Them? No. I managed to avoid that. Instead, I had the duty I mocked another girl for having before I joined your ranks...bagging rocks." A sour face pulls her expression in tightly, not doing anything at all to improve her appearance. Stepping closer to Satiet, she motions toward the Fortian brownrider at the klah pot, whispering, "How can you tell where they're all from? She's not from here, the one in red, is she? I mean, I remember studying the drawings of all the knots, but we hardly ever needed any in River Bend aside from Reaches."

Satiet follows Linnea's gaze towards the rider, curiosity narrowing her eyes. Blithely, she shrugs, "Their knot tells where they're from. Didn't you ever pay attention in your harper classes? Black is the main color of the Weyrs, and whatever color is intertwined with it is where they're from. If you had paid attention in classes, you'd obviously know." The white on her shoulder is given a careless flick, "We're at the bottom of the pack so we only get white knots." Her dismay at this is self-evident in her cool tones. The alto voice lifts up though, as she continues to observe the Fortian rider, "Reaches duties to you, ma'am." An elbow nudge is given the other girl, "Go on. Be polite."

Rachiel meanders up the stairs to the residents' quarters.
Rachiel has left.

Lexiana quickly turns around trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. When she see the white knot of those addressing her, she smiles a bit. "Fort duties to Reaches and her queens." giving her the official greeting. "Do one of you know where a lowly brownrider my find a fresh pot of klah."

Linnea frowns, looking down at her own knot, then squinting across the room to peer more closely at the other woman's ranking knot. "I know it tells the weyr," she hisses. "But I can't remember for the life of me which colors go where, and how many twists each rank gets. You don't have to talk to me like I'm a wherry." Her hiss comes to an abrupt halt, however, as her tone rises and she straightens her posture to speak to the rider. "Reaches's duties to you, ma'am," she echoes primly. "Yes ma'am, of course I do. I'll fetch some fresh." With that, she's taken off toward the kitchens, aiming to prove, perhaps to Satiet, that she's the more polite, even if she doesn't know her knots by heart.

Lexiana
This isn't the face that launched a thousand ships - she's attractive but in her own subdued style, which owes little to artifice and much to nature. Dark auburn hair falling in burnished layers around a narrow, fine boned face, her eyes are the deep sea-green that can become sea-blue with a change of light, or her mood, and her skin is a warm peach, with a healthy tanned glow that still seems to hold summer warmth.

She stands around 5'6, with a well-proportioned figure, her breasts are small but firm and well shaped and her waist curves smoothly in and then out to full hips, a woman's figure rather than a girl's, carried with grace and dignity.

Gleaming with deep red and Bordeaux, the leather set she is wearing seems to be the perfect defense against the deadly chill of *between* Cut narrow at the waist, the jacket is lined with contrasting white-dyed fur which can be seen around the wrists and neck. Embroidered with silver threads on the chest near the heart, the Fort Weyr insignia adds another shade, matching those of the brass buckles that circle the waist. Finally, a pair of snug fitting wherhide pants disappearing into high-knee leather boots, succeed in scaring the coldness away. The overall effect seems to radiate warmth.

On her shoulder is a brown and black knot that shows her position to be that of a rider at Fort Weyr, a brown thread runs through it denoting the color of her lifemate. She appears to be somewhere around 20 turns old.
Carrying:
Blaze(#2374QVps$)

"Brown for Fort," is murmured under Satiet's breath, a mental notation being taken if the further narrowing of inquisitive eyes on the knot is any indication. At the rider's approach, she straightens, eyes widening again and a warm smile finding its way onto her lips. "There's usually fresh klah in the living caverns. I'm afraid there's been far too much traffic in the lower caverns this day for us candidates to keep up with keeping a fresh supply here." Linnea's hissing is ignored, as is her quick steps towards the kitchens except for a slightly amused look in her glance. "Don't mind her, ma'am, she tends to be rather wherryhead once in a while, but she's a sweetheart most of the time."

Lexiana chuckles a bit and then nods. "I will keep that on mind." Then she nods. "I am Brown Duerth's Lexiana." Says in a friendly greeting.

Linnea misses Satiet's kind words while she's away, but the hustling girl eventually returns with a fresh pot in her bare hands. This seems to present a bit of difficulty, as it is rather warm and seems to be reddening her hands. "Oh oooh, oohhh," she murmurs, passing the pot back and forth from hand to hand before placing it daintily on the table near the brownriding guest to Reaches. "Here you are, ma'am. They hadn't set up fresh, so I waited while it was made." She looks at the pot, then at the woman, hopefully. "Do you still want it?"

"Satiet of Tillek, but now of here, I suppose." The name pronounced say-shet, "With a t, so my brothers call me Sattie, which is a disgusting abbreviation." The dark ponytail swishes when Linnea returns, the Tillekian candidate marking the other girl's progress with cool, observant eyes. "They might've had some fresh klah in the living caverns. You didn't have to bother the kitchen staff, you know." Long strides, or at least the longest possible with her slight height, bring her closer towards the brownrider, and she glances curiously towards wherever the boy candidate went off to. "Did you have an errand to run while here, ma'am? Package to deliver?"

Lexiana smiles at Linnea and nods. "Yes, I still want some. It has been a long day." Grabbing a clean mug, she pours herself some. "Yes, I had a package to deliever. It happens when we are the news member of a wing. You get the run around duties."

"It was ages old in there. And besides," prattles Linnea, "I wanted to see how they make it here. Did you know they have a great press where they prepare it? It's amazing. But--oh." She steps back to Lexiana can fill her mug, her hands clasping behind her back. "Do you have any more to be run around? I'm sure Sattie would love to tend them for you, if so."

Lexiana shakes her head. "Nope this is my last stop for the day. After this I have a date with a very long hot bath." then she eyes unfocus a bit. "Alright, first I have a date with an oil paddle and then a long bath."

"Just graduated then?" The smile on Satiet's lips widen, and a hand lifts, two fingers pressed to her forehead in a mock salute, "Congratulations are in order then. We don't hear much news outside of Pern at my cothold, but every so often a trip to Tillek will bring in the gossip. I'd heard there had been eggs at Fort in the past turn or so." Her smile tightens at the nickname, and the look darted towards Linnea is chilled over. "If I can meet more people in the Weyr, I wouldn't mind, but perhaps the rider should rest a bit before worrying over work? It's a long ride, even with between." She pauses, considering Lexiana, an idle finger coming to tap against her cheek, "It's disconcerting when riders do that. Talk to themselves, but not."

Linnea studies Lexiana intently, her eyes moving from the knot to the person and back again as though committing each to a studied memory, which will likely not last more than five minutes following her efforts. "I suppose you're right. I don't mean to pester." A rueful glance toward Satiet, and Li sighs lightly. When the rider's eyes unfocus, she looks uncertainly at her fellow candidate, nodding. "Why do they--pardon, ma'am--you-- do that? Are your eyes itchy?"

Lexiana stops midway in a drink and blinks a bit as she gives Satiet a sideways look. "Talk to themselves.... I wasn't talking to myself. I was answering Duerth..." then after a moment thought. "With could be disconcerting if you aren't use to being around riders."

"I know that, Karimina did that too, I think." Satiet comments, a flush rising to her cheeks. The grip around the handle of the basket tightens and though she keeps the rider within view, the slight girl begins to move from glow lantern to lantern, replenishing each with new ones. "It's.. strange. I can't tell if someone's honestly going crazy, talking to themselves, or just a rider. Though I suppose the just qualification doesn't do your service justice." When the girl's rounds bring her near Linnea, her dark head leans forward to murmur lightly, "I'd prefer it, dear, if you didn't call me Sattie. Please." The emphasis placed on the last word sets it apart from the rest of the casual attitude, and the overly sweet smile that accompanies could be disconcerting in it's cattiness.

Linnea's face doesn't redden, though she picks up on the sideways glance toward the other girl from the rider, and a slight smile creeps across her lips. As Satiet returns to her chores, Linnea also strives to look busy, moving along the beverage station in this area and checking the arrangement of cups and mugs. "I'm sorry," Li returns, innocently, her own voice lilting in its tone and raised in pitch over its norm. "I didn't realize that you didn't like it. I'll try to remember, but my memory isn't very good and I have trouble recalling my lessons."

"It's a pity you have trouble recalling my name and not my nickname." Solemnity darkens Satiet's face as she lingers near the other girl. "But I suppose I should be kinder to those less fortunate. I apologize, Lin." If only all apologies were this easy. Keeping her voice conversationally distant, she studies the other candidate, "How've your days been since being Searched? I'm sorry I didn't get to see you until later that night, but the chores here have been keeping me occupied. And I've never been to a Weyr before." Curiosity parts her lips and a question tumbles forward, unchecked by her better judgment, "Did you ever find the tunnels that heat the sands?"

Linnea scoots sideways along the tables, keeping the ancient lace on her cuff clear of any spills or overfull pots. "I'm not even going to answer that," she mutters, proving her words to be untruths in their uttering. "My days," she says, shortly, "have been fine. I've spent more hours with firestone than I'd ever hoped to, and at night, I've hardly slept, though I haven't found the tunnel, no. There's a spinner above my cot," and here she loses her distant tone in the sharing of an item of interest, "and it has been making and remaking its web. I think it collects insects, and I've been watching it feed."

Lexiana watches the two candidates with intense eyes if not amused eyes. Then she clears her voice just a bit just to remind them that she is there. "You haven't spend time with firestone until you have impressed a fighting dragon. Then you will learn to love firestone."

"Spinners do that. Prey on other insects." Satiet tilts her head, the runnertail bobbling towards one side. With a sigh, she returns to her duties, dropping four large glows into the last of the lanterns that decorate the lower caverns work area. Skittering around a group of laundry workers, she returns to the other candidate's side, the smile on her face touching on genuine. "I did leave my pants on your cot earlier after dinner. In case you wanted to look over it a bit. I've never been terribly interested in mending trousers, but if you're game and would oblige me, I'd love to watch." Lexiana is cast a quick look and a lopsided smirk, "Love it or hate it, I suppose by then it'll be too late to back out. Has your dragon flamed then? Even without Thread?"

Lexiana nods and puffs up with pride if not a little annoyed. "Yes, Duerth has flamed and he is very good at it thank you. Just because there isn't thread doesn't mean that a dragon stops being a dragon and doing what dragons do."

Linnea chews her lip, as though the idea of spending lots and lots of time with firestone perhaps wasn't her idea of a wonderful past-time. "You do?" Seizing on the opportunity to learn something about how the world works, she rapidly follows that up with, "Can you explain why it works? Or how it works? The firestone, how it doesn't break their teeth? It seems awfully heavy, and I'd think it was hard to chew up." Eager to hear replies, she murmurs to Satiet, as though embarrassed for her mending skills rather than proud, "I guess, if you must. I usually work alone when I'm mending, so I can concentrate better."

Friendly, a complete turnaround, Satiet attempts to put her free arm around Linnea's shoulders in camaderie, "I'd love to. Really." But whatever she plans on saying next trails off into silence, her pointed chin lifting in interest towards Lexiana. "Have you ever been flamed, even a little bit, by your own dragon? Can you actually feel him chewing or, taste it it feels like for him?" Curiosity overcomes her know-it-all nature, and she takes a few steps forward, "I've heard that you can sometimes feel what the dragon is feeling.. you know."

Lexiana frowns a bit at Satiet and then takes a second to compile her thoughts. "I can give you an hour or two lecture on firestone if you want. And I can make it longer if Duerth gets involved in the lecture. Him being the pro." Then she thinks a little more. "No, I haven't been flamed by Duerth. In spite him being very clumsy at some things. No, I don't think I have ever tasted it or felt like I am chewing the stone. However, when he is in pain. I feel it quite plainly. And I can feel his emotions, too." then she frowns a bit more. "It is kind of hard to explain. It is like you have two minds in your head."

Linnea's few moments of concentrated effort toward the rider bring back an earlier question of Satiet's into her memory, and she looks curiously toward the living cavern. "I think there is somewhere left that I haven't tried. For the tunnel? If you'll excuse me, ma'am, Sattie, I'll be sure to see you later, to catch you for mending your pants before bed if nothing else." Eagerly bright eyes return to Lexiana, "I'd love to hear the lecture, ma'am, really. I've always wondered how it all worked. Thank you for telling us a little about it." With a quick curtsy, she bolts for the living cavern. "Please come visit Reaches again soon!"

Linnea wanders through the archway, into the living cavern.
Linnea has left.

"How distracting." Satiet brushes invisible dust off her shoulder, "Two minds in your head. The way I figured it was always two minds somehow becoming one, but a whole different entity in smaller heads might be too much." A surreptitious look is shot towards Linnea's exit. "In any case, I hope the Reaches can be hospitable to you and yours, ma'am. I'm afraid I'll have to pass on that lecture for now." A wry grin surfaces on her features, "Should I Impress, I'll wait until then to sit through something that long."

Lexiana strolls through the archway, out to the bowl.
Lexiana has left.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

Logs:Don't You Know Anything?

2014-11-22T04:34:54Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Bidran, Lexiana, Linnea, Rachiel, Satiet |what= |where=Lower Caverns |when=day 6, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.20 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |oo..."

{{Log
|who=Bidran, Lexiana, Linnea, Rachiel, Satiet
|what=
|where=Lower Caverns
|when=day 6, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.20
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=bidran, lexiana, linnea, rachiel, satiet
|log=Your location's current time: 19:37 on day 6, month 8, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer evening.

You stride through the archway, into the lower caverns.
Lower Caverns(#1090RJs)

One of the glow baskets next to you flickers a bit and then becomes steady again.

Rachiel walks through the archway, from the living cavern.

Rachiel
Standing at 4'3'', Rachiel is average in height. She is average in her weight. Her eyes are of a light blue shade. Her skin is a light brown shade, as if she has worked outside for long periods of time. Her hair is also a light brown and is waist length. Although not visible, she has some muscle, and, when needed, she can lift a heavy load. Her age is ). She wears a light tan shirt with dark tan pants. Her hair is held up with a strip of light blue cloth, and her boots are made of wherhide.
Carrying:
Bag of marbles
Gitar

Evening's approach to the Weyr is marked by a setting sun outside, however those inside are given indication by the changing of the glows. A large basket is held along her forearm, the other arm reaching up to drop a few glows into one of the various baskets that light up the cavern. Slowly, one by one, each basket receives more glows, brightening the room for those who are finishing up work. In the corner, a pair of dragonriders sit playing cards and their raucous laughter lifts up above most of the other noises. With a smile playing on her lips, Satiet steps over towards the game, joining the small crowd watching the game.

Rachiel walks into the cavern holding a piece of hide in one hand and her giter carefully in the other.

"You should get out, rider," Satiet remarks, her alto quiet but well-pitched so her intended target, the bluerider she's standing behind, can hear it. "Those cards aren't going to get you anywhere good." She stands their, hip swinging to one side to rest the basket against, her gaze strays from the game to the numerous passersby, a short girl with an instrument catching her eye. Another smile floats to her lips, and she lifts her hand to wiggle fingers in a wave towards the girl.

Rachiel notices Satiet and walks over to her and says, "Hello."

For now, her attention diverges from the game towards the approaching girl, and a half-welcoming smile is fashioned onto her lips. It's a half-hearted attempt at best, a trifle forced. "Evening. You play the gitar?" Satiet's blue eyes rest on the instrument held in the girl's hand, "Or are you running an errand for a harper?"

Rachiel looks at Satiet and says, "I can play, but I don't run errand for the harper."

Satiet's lips thin, the smile of seconds prior, a ghost on her features. Dark brows draw together as she considers the instrument again in silence, a nod finally accompanying her expression. "It must have cost your parents quite a few marks to get that for you." Her voice softens, and now outright ignoring the game, she takes a few steps forward, leaning forward to be on eye-level with the girl. "You must be quite talented? Are you thinking of becoming a harper?" Her lips part in a pause of sudden thought, and she laughs, "I talk about manners and yet I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. Satiet." The name pronounced as say-shet. "High Reaches duties, little one."

Rachiel looks at the game and then back to Satiet, "I earned the marks on my own, I think about becoming a harper but i'm happy here in the weyr."

Surprise darkens the blue of Satiet's eyes and she blinks a few times. "Faranth, if I could've earned that many marks when I was as young as you are, I'd be a Lady Holder by now." The lighthearted tease of the girl's intonation escapes in an unchecked giggle. "Have you lived at the Weyr long then? Born here, raised here? Know all the nooks and crannies to get lost in?"

Rachiel giggles and says, "I know of a few secret places here. I was raised in Telgar Hold, until about a turn ago."

"Telgar Hold?" Satiet looks over her shoulder, a sudden yelp of triumph from the game causing her to smirk. "Looks like I was ride. You shouldn't have bet that last round, I -told- you." Self-important confidence displays in the uptilt of her right eyebrow, before she turns back to Rachiel, smug. "So why are you here? Did your parents come to the Weyr, or were you fostered?"

(Rachiel had to leave so we ended this scene here.)

Rachiel meanders up the stairs to the residents' quarters.
Rachiel has left.

Lexiana strolls in through the archway from the bowl.
Lexiana has arrived.

Rachiel wanders down the stairs from the residents' quarters.
Rachiel has arrived.

Bidran meanders through the archway, from the living cavern.
Bidran has arrived.

Linnea meanders in through the archway from the bowl.
Linnea has arrived.

The crowd in the lower caverns has grown, various people finishing up projects here and there across the work tables, while an exuberant card game is being held in the far corner. Satiet has returned to her spot near the game, low words being murmured as she watches, and bobbling head keeping track of the cards that are being played. "The greenrider'll win next round," she predicts idly, drawing out an indulgent smile on those older around her. Over her right arm, a large basket of glows is held, her evening chore being neglected for this side distraction.

As dinner ends, more people filter in from the living caverns, pausing to catch up with acquaintances on their way back to their rooms. Half the cavern is lit with fresh glows, while the other half is still slightly dark.

Bidran walks in from the Living Cavern with food still in his hands, startled by the crowd in the Lower Caverns, he drops a breadroll. Blinking, he picks it up and blows off the dirt.

This stranger with a Brownrider Fort knot walks into the living carven with a large bag thrown across her shoulder. Looking around, she spots a male candidate walking sweeping up next to the hearth. She waves the boy over and Tonver bows. "Duties brownrider. How may I help you?" She leans down and says some short hushed words and the hands the bag over to him. He bounces off with his buddle.

Linnea, freshly bathed and her clothing freshly cleaned and dried, dodges some unruly escaping children who come up to about her elbows as she comes in, making a mildly irate face. "Be careful, young ones," she chides to their backs as they move out of sight. "Gracious. No manners, at all." That noted, she folds her arms over her chest, and surveys the rest of the scene, remaining still for the moment to take in the others present, noting the group playing cards and those nearby.

Bidran is startled again as he sees the Fort knot on Lexiana's shoulder.

Satiet is so intent on the game, that the other incomings are given passing regards. Fingers stretch out, the soft pop of a knuckle barely discernible in the din of noise. "Games in the bag," she murmurs again, waiting for the final card turnover by studying each of the player's expressions. A nervous tic along the side of a Reaches brownrider's face causes the candidate's grin to twitch sardonically. "It's over." Easing herself off the wall, the raven- haired girl pushes her way out from the crowd gently, casting a rueful look backwards, "Should've bet on who'd win. Ah well." Now out from the crowd, she observes the other people in the caverns, offering a casual nod towards Linnea, "Hey, nursery duty?"

Lexiana stretches out her arms a bit as her heavy burden has been lifted. Smiling at those that give there greetings, she walks over to the drink table and reaches for the klah pot. However, she just frowns at the pot because alas it is empty. Sighing, she mutter something about 'great... just been one of those days.'

Linnea, free of the rabble of running children, looks around for the source of the voice, momentarily confused. "Sorry? What was...oh. Them? No. I managed to avoid that. Instead, I had the duty I mocked another girl for having before I joined your ranks...bagging rocks." A sour face pulls her expression in tightly, not doing anything at all to improve her appearance. Stepping closer to Satiet, she motions toward the Fortian brownrider at the klah pot, whispering, "How can you tell where they're all from? She's not from here, the one in red, is she? I mean, I remember studying the drawings of all the knots, but we hardly ever needed any in River Bend aside from Reaches."

Satiet follows Linnea's gaze towards the rider, curiosity narrowing her eyes. Blithely, she shrugs, "Their knot tells where they're from. Didn't you ever pay attention in your harper classes? Black is the main color of the Weyrs, and whatever color is intertwined with it is where they're from. If you had paid attention in classes, you'd obviously know." The white on her shoulder is given a careless flick, "We're at the bottom of the pack so we only get white knots." Her dismay at this is self-evident in her cool tones. The alto voice lifts up though, as she continues to observe the Fortian rider, "Reaches duties to you, ma'am." An elbow nudge is given the other girl, "Go on. Be polite."

Rachiel meanders up the stairs to the residents' quarters.
Rachiel has left.

Lexiana quickly turns around trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. When she see the white knot of those addressing her, she smiles a bit. "Fort duties to Reaches and her queens." giving her the official greeting. "Do one of you know where a lowly brownrider my find a fresh pot of klah."

Linnea frowns, looking down at her own knot, then squinting across the room to peer more closely at the other woman's ranking knot. "I know it tells the weyr," she hisses. "But I can't remember for the life of me which colors go where, and how many twists each rank gets. You don't have to talk to me like I'm a wherry." Her hiss comes to an abrupt halt, however, as her tone rises and she straightens her posture to speak to the rider. "Reaches's duties to you, ma'am," she echoes primly. "Yes ma'am, of course I do. I'll fetch some fresh." With that, she's taken off toward the kitchens, aiming to prove, perhaps to Satiet, that she's the more polite, even if she doesn't know her knots by heart.

Lexiana
This isn't the face that launched a thousand ships - she's attractive but in her own subdued style, which owes little to artifice and much to nature. Dark auburn hair falling in burnished layers around a narrow, fine boned face, her eyes are the deep sea-green that can become sea-blue with a change of light, or her mood, and her skin is a warm peach, with a healthy tanned glow that still seems to hold summer warmth.

She stands around 5'6, with a well-proportioned figure, her breasts are small but firm and well shaped and her waist curves smoothly in and then out to full hips, a woman's figure rather than a girl's, carried with grace and dignity.

Gleaming with deep red and Bordeaux, the leather set she is wearing seems to be the perfect defense against the deadly chill of *between* Cut narrow at the waist, the jacket is lined with contrasting white-dyed fur which can be seen around the wrists and neck. Embroidered with silver threads on the chest near the heart, the Fort Weyr insignia adds another shade, matching those of the brass buckles that circle the waist. Finally, a pair of snug fitting wherhide pants disappearing into high-knee leather boots, succeed in scaring the coldness away. The overall effect seems to radiate warmth.

On her shoulder is a brown and black knot that shows her position to be that of a rider at Fort Weyr, a brown thread runs through it denoting the color of her lifemate. She appears to be somewhere around 20 turns old.
Carrying:
Blaze(#2374QVps$)

"Brown for Fort," is murmured under Satiet's breath, a mental notation being taken if the further narrowing of inquisitive eyes on the knot is any indication. At the rider's approach, she straightens, eyes widening again and a warm smile finding its way onto her lips. "There's usually fresh klah in the living caverns. I'm afraid there's been far too much traffic in the lower caverns this day for us candidates to keep up with keeping a fresh supply here." Linnea's hissing is ignored, as is her quick steps towards the kitchens except for a slightly amused look in her glance. "Don't mind her, ma'am, she tends to be rather wherryhead once in a while, but she's a sweetheart most of the time."

Lexiana chuckles a bit and then nods. "I will keep that on mind." Then she nods. "I am Brown Duerth's Lexiana." Says in a friendly greeting.

Linnea misses Satiet's kind words while she's away, but the hustling girl eventually returns with a fresh pot in her bare hands. This seems to present a bit of difficulty, as it is rather warm and seems to be reddening her hands. "Oh oooh, oohhh," she murmurs, passing the pot back and forth from hand to hand before placing it daintily on the table near the brownriding guest to Reaches. "Here you are, ma'am. They hadn't set up fresh, so I waited while it was made." She looks at the pot, then at the woman, hopefully. "Do you still want it?"

"Satiet of Tillek, but now of here, I suppose." The name pronounced say-shet, "With a t, so my brothers call me Sattie, which is a disgusting abbreviation." The dark ponytail swishes when Linnea returns, the Tillekian candidate marking the other girl's progress with cool, observant eyes. "They might've had some fresh klah in the living caverns. You didn't have to bother the kitchen staff, you know." Long strides, or at least the longest possible with her slight height, bring her closer towards the brownrider, and she glances curiously towards wherever the boy candidate went off to. "Did you have an errand to run while here, ma'am? Package to deliver?"

Lexiana smiles at Linnea and nods. "Yes, I still want some. It has been a long day." Grabbing a clean mug, she pours herself some. "Yes, I had a package to deliever. It happens when we are the news member of a wing. You get the run around duties."

"It was ages old in there. And besides," prattles Linnea, "I wanted to see how they make it here. Did you know they have a great press where they prepare it? It's amazing. But--oh." She steps back to Lexiana can fill her mug, her hands clasping behind her back. "Do you have any more to be run around? I'm sure Sattie would love to tend them for you, if so."

Lexiana shakes her head. "Nope this is my last stop for the day. After this I have a date with a very long hot bath." then she eyes unfocus a bit. "Alright, first I have a date with an oil paddle and then a long bath."

"Just graduated then?" The smile on Satiet's lips widen, and a hand lifts, two fingers pressed to her forehead in a mock salute, "Congratulations are in order then. We don't hear much news outside of Pern at my cothold, but every so often a trip to Tillek will bring in the gossip. I'd heard there had been eggs at Fort in the past turn or so." Her smile tightens at the nickname, and the look darted towards Linnea is chilled over. "If I can meet more people in the Weyr, I wouldn't mind, but perhaps the rider should rest a bit before worrying over work? It's a long ride, even with between." She pauses, considering Lexiana, an idle finger coming to tap against her cheek, "It's disconcerting when riders do that. Talk to themselves, but not."

Linnea studies Lexiana intently, her eyes moving from the knot to the person and back again as though committing each to a studied memory, which will likely not last more than five minutes following her efforts. "I suppose you're right. I don't mean to pester." A rueful glance toward Satiet, and Li sighs lightly. When the rider's eyes unfocus, she looks uncertainly at her fellow candidate, nodding. "Why do they--pardon, ma'am--you-- do that? Are your eyes itchy?"

Lexiana stops midway in a drink and blinks a bit as she gives Satiet a sideways look. "Talk to themselves.... I wasn't talking to myself. I was answering Duerth..." then after a moment thought. "With could be disconcerting if you aren't use to being around riders."

"I know that, Karimina did that too, I think." Satiet comments, a flush rising to her cheeks. The grip around the handle of the basket tightens and though she keeps the rider within view, the slight girl begins to move from glow lantern to lantern, replenishing each with new ones. "It's.. strange. I can't tell if someone's honestly going crazy, talking to themselves, or just a rider. Though I suppose the just qualification doesn't do your service justice." When the girl's rounds bring her near Linnea, her dark head leans forward to murmur lightly, "I'd prefer it, dear, if you didn't call me Sattie. Please." The emphasis placed on the last word sets it apart from the rest of the casual attitude, and the overly sweet smile that accompanies could be disconcerting in it's cattiness.

Linnea's face doesn't redden, though she picks up on the sideways glance toward the other girl from the rider, and a slight smile creeps across her lips. As Satiet returns to her chores, Linnea also strives to look busy, moving along the beverage station in this area and checking the arrangement of cups and mugs. "I'm sorry," Li returns, innocently, her own voice lilting in its tone and raised in pitch over its norm. "I didn't realize that you didn't like it. I'll try to remember, but my memory isn't very good and I have trouble recalling my lessons."

"It's a pity you have trouble recalling my name and not my nickname." Solemnity darkens Satiet's face as she lingers near the other girl. "But I suppose I should be kinder to those less fortunate. I apologize, Lin." If only all apologies were this easy. Keeping her voice conversationally distant, she studies the other candidate, "How've your days been since being Searched? I'm sorry I didn't get to see you until later that night, but the chores here have been keeping me occupied. And I've never been to a Weyr before." Curiosity parts her lips and a question tumbles forward, unchecked by her better judgment, "Did you ever find the tunnels that heat the sands?"

Linnea scoots sideways along the tables, keeping the ancient lace on her cuff clear of any spills or overfull pots. "I'm not even going to answer that," she mutters, proving her words to be untruths in their uttering. "My days," she says, shortly, "have been fine. I've spent more hours with firestone than I'd ever hoped to, and at night, I've hardly slept, though I haven't found the tunnel, no. There's a spinner above my cot," and here she loses her distant tone in the sharing of an item of interest, "and it has been making and remaking its web. I think it collects insects, and I've been watching it feed."

Lexiana watches the two candidates with intense eyes if not amused eyes. Then she clears her voice just a bit just to remind them that she is there. "You haven't spend time with firestone until you have impressed a fighting dragon. Then you will learn to love firestone."

"Spinners do that. Prey on other insects." Satiet tilts her head, the runnertail bobbling towards one side. With a sigh, she returns to her duties, dropping four large glows into the last of the lanterns that decorate the lower caverns work area. Skittering around a group of laundry workers, she returns to the other candidate's side, the smile on her face touching on genuine. "I did leave my pants on your cot earlier after dinner. In case you wanted to look over it a bit. I've never been terribly interested in mending trousers, but if you're game and would oblige me, I'd love to watch." Lexiana is cast a quick look and a lopsided smirk, "Love it or hate it, I suppose by then it'll be too late to back out. Has your dragon flamed then? Even without Thread?"

Lexiana nods and puffs up with pride if not a little annoyed. "Yes, Duerth has flamed and he is very good at it thank you. Just because there isn't thread doesn't mean that a dragon stops being a dragon and doing what dragons do."

Linnea chews her lip, as though the idea of spending lots and lots of time with firestone perhaps wasn't her idea of a wonderful past-time. "You do?" Seizing on the opportunity to learn something about how the world works, she rapidly follows that up with, "Can you explain why it works? Or how it works? The firestone, how it doesn't break their teeth? It seems awfully heavy, and I'd think it was hard to chew up." Eager to hear replies, she murmurs to Satiet, as though embarrassed for her mending skills rather than proud, "I guess, if you must. I usually work alone when I'm mending, so I can concentrate better."

Friendly, a complete turnaround, Satiet attempts to put her free arm around Linnea's shoulders in camaderie, "I'd love to. Really." But whatever she plans on saying next trails off into silence, her pointed chin lifting in interest towards Lexiana. "Have you ever been flamed, even a little bit, by your own dragon? Can you actually feel him chewing or, taste it it feels like for him?" Curiosity overcomes her know-it-all nature, and she takes a few steps forward, "I've heard that you can sometimes feel what the dragon is feeling.. you know."

Lexiana frowns a bit at Satiet and then takes a second to compile her thoughts. "I can give you an hour or two lecture on firestone if you want. And I can make it longer if Duerth gets involved in the lecture. Him being the pro." Then she thinks a little more. "No, I haven't been flamed by Duerth. In spite him being very clumsy at some things. No, I don't think I have ever tasted it or felt like I am chewing the stone. However, when he is in pain. I feel it quite plainly. And I can feel his emotions, too." then she frowns a bit more. "It is kind of hard to explain. It is like you have two minds in your head."

Linnea's few moments of concentrated effort toward the rider bring back an earlier question of Satiet's into her memory, and she looks curiously toward the living cavern. "I think there is somewhere left that I haven't tried. For the tunnel? If you'll excuse me, ma'am, Sattie, I'll be sure to see you later, to catch you for mending your pants before bed if nothing else." Eagerly bright eyes return to Lexiana, "I'd love to hear the lecture, ma'am, really. I've always wondered how it all worked. Thank you for telling us a little about it." With a quick curtsy, she bolts for the living cavern. "Please come visit Reaches again soon!"

Linnea wanders through the archway, into the living cavern.
Linnea has left.

"How distracting." Satiet brushes invisible dust off her shoulder, "Two minds in your head. The way I figured it was always two minds somehow becoming one, but a whole different entity in smaller heads might be too much." A surreptitious look is shot towards Linnea's exit. "In any case, I hope the Reaches can be hospitable to you and yours, ma'am. I'm afraid I'll have to pass on that lecture for now." A wry grin surfaces on her features, "Should I Impress, I'll wait until then to sit through something that long."

Lexiana strolls through the archway, out to the bowl.
Lexiana has left.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}

User:Satiet

2014-11-22T04:13:47Z

Satiet:

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Satiet}}

{{Cloud | player=Satiet | exclude=Satiet;Suireh;Anvori;Iolene;Mievne;Laiyele;Gisele;Lia;Iabri;Ienavi;Yuliye;Meara;V'teri}}

== I Play ==
{|
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Lia.jpg]]
|'''[[Lia]]''' (''2012, 2014-'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Suireh.jpg]]
|'''[[Suireh]]''' (''2007 - 2010, 2014-'') Suireh. unlike her mother, was a ''somebody'' from birth as the daughter of ''somebodies''. She aspires to be like her mother, even though she might not actually be suited to that temperament. In many ways, she suffers from low self-esteem, having failed to follow in her parents' footsteps as, not only dragonriders, but Weyr leaders, and sometimes fails to realize just how talented of a harper she could be. Currently, she's a vocal apprentice off-camera at Harper Hall, coming to visit High Reaches as regularly as she's allowed. She's studying for her journeyman exams/boards, naively unaware of what a politically divisive history she carries and how that could be exploited.
|}

== I Played ==

{|
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iolene.jpg]]
|'''[[Iolene]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2012'') Iolene was created for the Exile plot and was the girl next door archetype. It was my first, successful, attempt at playing a nice character who was somehow not boring. (Well, I like to think at any rate.) In spite of her destitute upbringing, she thought the world could be made of rainbows and unicorns and desperately wanted to make it a better place. In an alternate universe, she would have been a happy holder's wife with a huge family, who would have helped the plight of those in need in her holdings, whether her husband liked it or not. Instead, she Impressed a conniving [[Dragon:Sun_and_Stars_Gold_Ysavaeth|dragon]] and ended up dying too young.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-V'teri.jpg]]
|'''[[V'teri]]''' (''April 2011 - August 2011'') V'teri was created for the Exile plot as a catalyst; a short term character. He was meant to ignite the whole thing by starting the search for the exiles and raising questions. My personal track record for playing males is pretty dismal, so I didn't expect him to last too long and... he lived up to that expectation (unfortunately).
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Laiyele.jpg]]
|'''[[Laiyele]]''' (''2011'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Mievne.jpg]]
|'''[[Mievne]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Iabri.jpg]]
|'''[[Iabri]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Ienavi.jpg]]
|'''[[Ienavi]]''' (''2009'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Yuliye.jpg]]
|'''[[Yuliye]]''' (''February 2009 - 2010'') 
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Anvori.jpg]]
|'''[[Anvori]]''' (''September 2008 - 2010'') Anvori was created on a lark as I was getting ready to retire playing Satiet. What would a male, raised in the same small hold as Satiet only a few turns older, turn out like? What kind of idol big brother would Satiet look up to? Having never been good at playing male characters, he was a pleasant surprise at having lasted long at all, which I attribute in large part to [[Leova]]. While, like all of my characters, he's no longer played, I like to think he still plays a large part (if off camera) in certain characters' lives.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Gisele.jpg]]
|'''[[Gisele]]''' (''February 2007 - 2010'') Gisele was created because as a player I needed to break free of the restrictions and reputations playing Satiet had somehow brought with it. She was a harper that wasn't really a ''harper'', being part of a specialty that most people did not regard very highly. She somehow managed to build a tragic history with love and was eventually posted away, when I started to retreat from playing and tying up loose ends, by higher powers when it was suspected she was having an affair (she wasn't) with another journeyman who was married. Oh, [[Rorkes]].
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Satiet.jpg]]
|'''[[Satiet]]''' (''December 16, 2004 - March 24, 2009'') Satiet was one of those characters, I feel, comes as an opportunity only once for a player and needs the right combination of luck (stories, situations, and other players and characters) and time. She was a mean girl who evolved into something more. She was never supposed to survive to get the chance to evolve.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Face-Meara.jpg]]
|'''[[Meara]]''' (''1998 - 2010'') 
|}

Alts:Satiet

2014-11-22T04:12:42Z

Satiet:

{{Alts
|alt1=Anvori
|alt2=Suireh
|alt3=Lia
|alt4=Iolene
|alt5=V'teri
|alt6=Laiyele
|alt7=Mievne
|alt8=Iabri
|alt9=Ienavi
|alt10=Yuliye
|alt11=Gisele
|alt12=Riye
|alt13=Satiet
|alt14=
|alt15=
}}

Logs:Linnea Searched!

2014-11-22T04:11:24Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Amilin, Josilina, Linnea, Satiet, V'lano |what=Linnea is Searched. |where= |when=day 1, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.19 |quote= |weather= |mentio..."

{{Log
|who=Amilin, Josilina, Linnea, Satiet, V'lano
|what=Linnea is Searched.
|where=
|when=day 1, month 8, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.19
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=

|log=You head towards the lake shore.
Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr

Linnea's eyes widen appreciably, and she takes a few sloshy steps across the sand, missing V'lano's flush as she's busy splashing up a small amount of water and spreading ripples as she moves toward the gathering pile. "Goshness, thank you. Tell her thank you? Unless she can understand person- talk not from you. Then she could hear me. I guess. Anyway, that'll at least save me getting soaked, if the sand is piled up some. But how to make all of the rest turquoise? That I don't know."

"I hear orange is a good color," V'lano replies to Ami with a grin that's quite a bit easier in coming than the one he'd put on for the weyrwoman's hatching- grounds-emptying suggestion. "Perhops a little bit of both. It might even make up for the - " Lowering his voice to a stage whisper - "-grey eggs.-" Josilina's attention to the sand-heap draws his as well, but he finishes unbooting and even stuffs his socks into the tops of the boots before straightening, bare toes squirming in the pleasantly damp sand, to stare blankly at Dasmareth's work. Blankly, he suggests, "Maybe fabric dye would work and... we... just don't know because we've never tried?"

"You can look into the possibilities, experiment on what dyes take..." Really, Ami's probably being helpful. Distracting Jos from a bad idea a simply, well, silly one. Dasmareth warbles cheerfully and nudges the pile again, sending more of it Linnea's way, and then adding a croon after, "Oh. She can understand you well enough. Though..." The greenrider winces at the slight sand slide towards the girl, "...That was her way of saying your welcome." Just think, Ami gets to live with Das, all the time too. V'lano's suggestion just causes her to lift a hand to her mouth so she might bite a knuckle to keep from laughing. Doesn't work though. After a moment she's able to reply, "Oh, quite a good color, yes. Just the thing to showcase the grey."

A small group of girls wander in from the bowl, the hyper chatter of teenagers on too much sweetening rise like a mass of twittering wherries - namely indiscernible in any specific subject due to the overlap of comments. Satiet's slight figure is central, damp hands brushing against the sooty apron around her waist. Her chin tilts towards one particular speaker, approval in the slight nod of her head, though her next words are decidely cool, "Don't you have better things to do than talk about a boy's hair? Chores, perhaps?" A pointed look is tossed over her shoulder back towards the Weyr proper, which the other girls take this as a cue to disperse, but not without casting a few unhappy glances towards the lake. "As noisy as the aunties at home." A quick scan brings a few group of people into her vision and interest sparks as she recognizes one of them, Linnea, and begins heading her way.

Josilina shoots V'lano a scandalized look that gets a warning look at the mention of the gray eyes. "You." Seems he's lost name privledges. "You /know/ we don't talk about those." She hisses rather urgently. Rather as if the poor eggs were embarressing mistakes. "We should try." She says, for the dye, though now she's addressing Amilin. V'lano is ignored. And so is Ami, after her last. "/Ami/." Now only Linnea, it seems, is attention worthy. Eyeing the sand pile again, "How're you going to get all that inside?" She wonders. Satiet and her approach get a wave.

Linnea looks doubtful at this idea. "Why would we use that much dye on sand? Unless we could make clothing that contained some. Then it might be more useful." She hunches over, careful to keep her lace-edged blouse clear of too much water, and scoops some sand into her container, just as some slides off the top of the pile toward her, covering her above the ankles. "I suppose I'm here for a while. As for inside? I suppose I'll make several trips." Grey eggs? Not discussed; taboo. Gaggle of girls? Li raises her chin, standing as proudly as she's able while close to knee-deep in water and ankle-deep in sand.

"I was thinking more along the lines of hiding them," V'lano admits with a wry grin toward Amilin; to Josilina, he offers a helpless shrug and the excuse, "Hiding them! So they...er... won't be embarrassed about their... color. They could hide in the orange and blue sand." Again with the stage whisper, including a not-very-subtle point behind his hand at Josilina for Ami's benefit: "I don't think she likes the grey!" But the Telgari's eyes are cheerful and he turns away from riders green and gold to dare a few steps past his boots toward the water's edge. "You'll need help carrying all of that sand. I think your pail's not going to manage it," he notes, regarding the sand-heap's slump toward Linnea. "Maybe that's the work I've been looking for!"

Amilin
You see a slender woman, whom appears to be in her later-twenties or so. Regular hours spent outside have done little to darken a fair complexion to tan, thus leaving it to be offset by wavy, light brown hair. Tresses that may fall to the small of her back when unbound are currently caught up in a loose, yet artistic knot, with a few stray tendrils delicately framing her face. If you catch her gaze you'd likely note her greenish-gray eyes, and though nothing else about her features is remarkable she might be considered pretty by some.

The billowy, cream, sisal shirt, with medium-length sleeves and v-necked collar, lays loosely to her hips, over her skirt. A long and flowing, deep mauve swirls about her ankles as she walks, giving glimpses of her matching slippers. On her shoulder is a High Reaches Weyr AWLM knot with a cord of green woven in and a Dragonhealer Capable's patch.

Josilina
Josilina is generally unremarkable in her build, of both average weight and height, standing at just short of five and a half feet. Kept long, her hair, when left loose, hits mid-back as a mass of copper curls that tend to frizz, particularly in damp weather. Her blue eyes are set beneath contrasting sienna 'brows and faded freckles sprinkle her face, falling particularly thick across the bridge of her nose and fading as they approach her rounded chin that tends to set so stubbornly. She looks to be somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties. (+detail available)

White and sleeveless, Josilina's button-down blouse is made for the warmer months. A few simple pleats down the front add decoration to the top but it is, in general, far outshone by her skirt. Bright and rainbow striped the skirt ends at her knees and hangs baggily around her legs, cinched in at the waist for a better fit. It sits a little awkwardly, but who can really notice, with all that color? She wears white sandals on her feet; a braided choker of blue, green and yellow ribbons at her throat and her hair is tied back in a 'tail by her red and white scarf.

V'lano
Tousled, sometimes fly-away curls frame a sun-drenched face made rough over the bridge of the nose and above generous brows from much time out of doors. Dark eyes framed by lashes too long for a young man's face express every little thing that comes into his head, saving him the trouble of much talking. His nose is a little narrow, but the even, smooth lips beneath it are not unpleasing, and a frame of smoothly curled hairs in the brackets of his mouth sets it off to advantage. His hands are slender and as expressive as his eyes, softened by much time in dragon-hide oil. He appears to be somewhere in his early twenties.

A tunic of undyed linen flows loose over his sinewy arms and even chest. Its pale fabric makes a swath down his torso, framed on either side by a cardigan sweater left open, woven in a dark sienna yarn. Trousers of coarser fabric tuck neatly into boots of harder leather, both likely chosen for ease of motion and cleaning. A fleece-lined wingrider's jacket graced with the badge of Telgar's Icewind wing provides footing for the simple rider's knot run through with a bronze thread.

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.

Amilin sends a glance at the group nearby, nodding to any that might look her way. It's jos that gets a chuckle, "It would distract you from the fact it's -sand- Jos." She's used to being in trouble. "Because Jos likes color." She explains to Linnea, but as she turns to reply to V'lano's aside, Das moves around the sand pile to lay coiled, blocking the girl between herself and the acquired pile. "You don't say. Maybe we should ban it from the color charts, just for her?"

The dark-haired girl makes her way around a rather largish rock, coming up near the Telgari rider. "Hiding what?" No matter that she's intruding on a conversation, Satiet's alto slips in innocuously as if it were there the entire time. Really. The rest of the conversation is given a look of complete askance, V'lano sized up in one top to bottom and back gaze. "H'lo." One by one, each of the group is given a quiet look of assessment before a smile of varying degrees of welcomeness is offered. The last is reserved for the girl knee-deep in water, a satisfied feline-like smile, followed by an amused inquiry, "Linnea, what in Faranth's name are you doing?"

"Because it's pretty." Is Josilina's prompt reply to Linnea. V'lano gets an incredulous look, "Hide them with /orange/? That's nearly as bad! What are you trying to -blind- them?" But she's not talking to him and as that's remembered she looks away hastily. Away to... Dasmareth, eyebrows raising in some surprise as the green blocks Linnea in. Satiet is now going unnoticed, as she's so busy ignoring V'lano and anyone very nearby him.

Linnea's thin lips pull back infinetesimally into a smile at the idea of color- changing the eggs. "You could probably hire some artists, you know? To paint the ones you don't like. Then they could be your favorite color, maybe not orange? and that would take far less dye than changing the whole sands." Realizing belatedly that the sand-pile is now inaccessible, she looks to V'lano. "Guess you'll have to move it. I can't reach it now." Satiet's question initially earns a soft, "Great." Slightly louder, she adds, "Finding a good excuse to shirk chores. Don't suppose you have a handy bucket?"

"Sst," hisses V'lano toward Amilin. "Sst, sst. SST." He draws a finger across his throat repeatedly as the greenrider goes on about painting eggs, making efforts at symbolically explaining that this is a somewhat undesired direction of conversation. But then there are some options for other conversations entirely, and he tries to make the most of both of them. Turning around in the water he greets the H'loer with a "H'lo" of his own and a seemingly shy wave, then notes, "A very large bucket." His expression, fixed on the green dragon now, is that of someone who is utterly lost. How did he get here again?

"Heyla." Amilin greets in return, then chuckles, "Well, they would surely notice the orange before the grey. You have to admit...No? Ahh well." The greenrider gives a wink for that, "We've been wondering when she might paint them... Jos is a fair artist herself, actually." V'lano she blinks at innocently, then assures, "She didn't last time. We figure Lhia won't let her." She gives her dragon a sidelong look then and rolls her eyes. "Let her finish, Das." And Das, for her part, just returns the bronzerider's look.

Being ignored doesn't sit well with Satiet, but after a long narrowed look at Josilina, she too shifts her head towards another direction, that being the green that's blocking Linnea in. Lips twitching downward from the smile that was on her lips, she shakes her head, hair tossing loftily. "You shouldn't shirk chores, it's just not done." But her eyebrows rise in interest and she attempts a few steps towards the other girl before stopping short. Her hand rifles helplessly through her hair, "No bucket. I have hands though? What do you need a very large bucket for? Dunking eggs in? Painting eggs? Omelet eggs? Eggs?" Blue eyes flicker quickly between Amilin and V'lano, confusion breaking through the facade of disinterest on her face.

"I could paint them myself." Josilina says with a shadow of a grimace. "But that Lhia won't let me." She tilts her head in slight acknowledgement to Amilin's statement of that same fact. "I'm waiting for her to be very, very asleep - /I can hear you hissing/." She attempts to glare over her shoulder without turning and, truthfully, fails utterly. "Actually, shirking chores is done quite often." She smiles now at Satiet, now that the girl's stepped more towards Linnea. "It just -shouldn't- be done. Technically. Hello. And I think a bucket's needed to help Linnea with all this sand." She nods to the pile.

Linnea, chin raised, answers Satiet first, "Well, I'd like your advice on how to get to my neat pile of sand with her in the way. And no, not omelets. I don't suggest you talk omelets in this particular instance. I'm gathering sand. Or I was, at least." As proof, she holds up the pot she's collected some in. "See?" Then she's distracted. "Well, nix on the painting, then. Maybe just stick some sand to them in nice patterns? Oh, but you don't like sand either. Scratchy wool, that."

"Our eggs," V'lano explains toward Satiet, flicking a significant glance toward Josilina. Humans lay eggs - that's how it's done at Reaches - didn't she know? "Sorry," he adds, shoulders hunching and chin dropping as the fact that his subtlety just, isn't, is called out by the goldrider. "Maybe a stepladder? You could probably climb over her," the bronzerider suggests, wading toward shore with a way eye on the green. "If she'd let you."

Dasmareth warbles, but the only movement she makes is to lay her tail in the way now, blocking Linnea in farther. Not exactly a cage, but certainly the faint sketch of one? "She's not shirking." The greenrider states, going on with, "Jos. I don't think Lhia will ever be that deeply asleep, unless she's sure you are. And even if you managed it, she'd still know it was you." Ami smiles for Linnea's suggestion and murmurs, "It'll be slip covers next." But she's rather distracted from that thought as she moves back towards her green, "You're in the way, lump. What good does it do to pile it for her if you wont let her have it."

Disapproval flicks briefly in Satiet's eyes at the mention of more chore shirking, before a more congenial look surfaces. It's all in how you shirk, and obviously handing them off to someone else isn't shirking - it's delegation. "No omelets then," she remarks placidly, "There's buckets in the storage caverns, some in the kitchens to help chuck out the meat bones and fish bones and innards that people don't eat in. I could get one of those for you, but it might contaminate your sand. Smelly too." Never mind the task at hand garners a dubious look. "You could dye sand and sprinkle it over the eggs. Harmless as long as you don't over do it." After her own suggestion is tossed into the growing mound, she peeks at Dasmareth. "Swim around her? Toss him the bucket?" Chin jerks towards V'lano.

Josilina is difficult, not liking gray, orange -or- sand. "Scratchy wool? Sand is, or we should stick wool on the eggs? - Our /dragons'/ eggs." She calls a correction of V'lano's words, still not looking at him. "You could try jumping her tail, if you're a high jumper." Judging by Jos's grimace and slant of her mouth, she's not serious in her suggestion. "She might. And she wouldn't necessarily know it was me. I could blame it on... someone else." There's someone else in the Weyr who'd paint eggs? "We already talked about dyeing sand. It got nixed, for some reason. I'm not sure why."

Linnea looks quite warily at the sparkly green who blocks her path, momentarily mesmerized by the reflective patches of auburn and red as they catch the light bouncing off of the lake. So absorbed is she that she fails to notice she's been caged until...she's been caged. "My. Goodness. They are friendly, aren't they?" Her voice is a trifle over-bright, as though compensating for an iota of fear. "I'm afraid I can't jump so well, when wet especially. And, ah, thank you, but I don't think a meat-bucket would do. This sand is for removing stains, not causing them. But if we turned some sand red, then maybe the eggs would be suitable and, oh. This has gone in circles, hasn't it?"

"They're friendly, yes," V'lano remarks, one brow lowering to cast a shadow over a frankly confused eye. "Normally friendly in more... " A wary gaze is sent toward Amilin, and he chooses his words more carefully. "Obviously understandable ways. You know, nuzzling, being helpful, making piles of sand. I've never been caged in but by my own Volath." His shoulders rise and fall, the eyebrow relaxing, and he finishes his approach to shore. Heading for his boots in a half-arc that keeps him well out of Dasmareth's way, he notes, "Maybe she has a different idea for the sand?"

"She'd know, Jos." Ami assures, but that's still an absent reply as she concentrates her green. One eye brow slowly lifts and she chuckles softly, "She says she'll move, Linnea, after you answer a question for her. I'm sorry to say, she's rather the stubborn sort, once she gets an idea she likes stuck in her head." A grin is slanted V'lano's way. "Das has her own, unique form of logic. Probably comes from a mix of eating too many fish growing up, playing too many hours of Rock. And of course, over exposure to her ledgemate." She skips tempting fate by ceasing her listing of her dragon's bad influences right there.

"Well then, I suppose it's just best to leave them as is. Dragon's forget easily though, don't they? She can't stay upset at you too long, if she even finds out who it is in the first place." The last statements are said in a blithe way that indicates Satiet? - she has no true clue on the inner workings of dragon and rider. Bemused, she watches first Josilina's actions and then Linnea's with the green. Cupping a hand around her mouth, she calls out the obvious towards V'lano, "I think she's ignoring you, but not very well." Amilin is darted a questioning look, eyes a trifle wide at Dasmareth's blockage and then the subsequent comment about a question. It takes a moment's bit of brow-furrowing thought before a knowing smirk towards Linnea mars the girl's features.

Josilina muses a little, "I've gotten trapped in by other dragons before. But not often. Usually, yeah, it's more ...obviously understandable." It's pretty safe to say, at this point, that Jos is terrible at ignoring people. So far, all she manages is keeping her back to V'lano. Which involves some odd shuffling as he moves for his boots. "Don't forget singing The Song." She mock-whispers to Amilin. So helpful with fate tempting lists, isn't she?

Linnea's face falls somewhat, not exactly finding encouragement in V'lano's words. "Well. If she'd tell me about it, I wouldn't mind sharing the sand." An idea strikes, and she can't fret for long. "Perhaps she thinks there needs to be more in the hatching cavern, instead of out of it? Or else, we need to warm some more. I was wondering how it gets warm in the first place." Chattering on, standing in the water, Li couldn't be less troubled, or perhaps she's just a trifle nervous. "Rock? Oh dear. I suppose I'd be happy to answer, if only the question isn't 'will you be Rock next'? Because that doesn't sound like very much fun. But singing? That could be."

"Rock?" V'lano cants his head toward Amilin, one eye narrowing - a grin forms around the repeated word, curiousity making a question of it. "The Song?" Similar presentation, directly toward Josilina; in fact, he makes himself a challenge to ignore now, picking up his boots and trodding bare-footed around the sand-lump, green dragon, and River Bend girl toward the other riders, seeking explanations. "Do you think she wants to play?" He twists around to eye Linnea, blinking at her predicament. "She's not - you know. It doesn't seem she is, anyway."

"Let's not bring that up, shall we? And I'll behave and not mention the non colors again today." Amazing how quick that bargain was offered from Ami, hmm? "Actually, that's pretty close to what Das is thinking at least. However, it's not sand she'd like to place there." She straitens as she asks, her voice more formal for the moment, "Linnea, of River Bend. It's my honor to invite you to stand for Lhiannonth's and Volath's clutch, currently on our sands. Her question, isn't about rock, but if you'll agree to stand?" A moment later, she adds, "And trust me, Rock is better than hearing her rendition of -that- song. -- Not what?"

Satiet parrots the others, curiosity overcoming most of her reservations, "Song?" In any case, when the Amilin finally asks the question the knowing smile curves up more, but other comments are stayed by a voice calling her name from the nebulous boundary between bowl and lake shore. "I'll be seeing you later, soon perhaps depending on your answer." A hand lifts to wiggle cheerily at the other potential candidate, slight inclines of her head offered towards the riders, before she heads off along her merry way towards her initial destination, the diving cliff.

You meander across the thin strip of land between the main lake and smaller pond, winding through rocks and boulders. As you near the southern bowl wall, the path begins to incline, taking you to a plateau several dragon lengths above the lake against the southern wall.
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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
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Logs:Of Men, Of Bronzeriders

2014-11-22T04:05:40Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Aislinn, Satiet, M'rek, Tobias |what= |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |when=day 31, month 7, Turn 1, Interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.18 |quote= |weather= |mentio..."

{{Log
|who=Aislinn, Satiet, M'rek, Tobias
|what=
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|when=day 31, month 7, Turn 1, Interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.18
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=
|icons=
|desc=
|log=Your location's current time: 16:24 on day 31, month 7, Turn 51, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer afternoon.

Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr

High in the bowl, Ulfianth rises up into the sky from Ulfianth's ledge, high on the western bowl wall.
High in the bowl, Ulfianth glides downward in the bowl, towards the western wall.
Above the bowl, to the west, Ulfianth glides to a swift landing on the ground.

M'rek has arrived.

Satiet sits near the edge of the lake, rolling up the bottom of her pants with careful precision, feet bare. Placed near her hip is a large woven basket of dirty clothing, delicates in blues and pinks capping off the top. After her pants, then comes her arms, the sleeves of the sweater pushed up in little rolls. The high mountain sun casts its summer glow against the bowl walls and reflects across the lake, and tipping her head back, the dark-haired girl catches what little warmth she can along her face and neck. "Jays, colder than home here." A shadowed look is cast towards the waters, the girl's expression hovering between disdain and a small sliver of excitement. "Shouldn't expect the water to be much warmer, I suppose."

M'rek swaggers a little as he makes his way towards the waters of the lake, it's either a natural roll to his walk or he's been drinking. The smell of him would indicate it's the later, for the bronzerider is like something scraped off the floor of a pub walking and then there's the dirt that's crusted to part of his face and over his clothes. For some reason or another, not likely any that make sense, M'rek makes it to the lake, wades in to the mid point on his calves and then leans over and starts to splash water up to his head, cleansing his face. Either it's not that cold, or he's such a state not to notice for he doesn't shiver at any point during the action. Finally, he reaches a point where he runs a hand over his head, fingers touching carefully as if checking for wounds, "Faranth but I didn't expect that lad to have such a tempe...oh." He stops as speaking to himself (or maybe his dragon) as he takes in Satiet. "Hello to you, Lass."

M'rek
Tall and broad shouldered, M'rek is impressive of form. The pale skin of his face is marked with a long healed scar that snakes down his left cheek for at least two inches. Other than the mark, his features are attractive enough if on the rugged side of handsome. His eyes are a dark and moody black that seems to spark all the more for their shadows. This twenty-six turns old male has had all of his hair shaved off, leaving him smoothly bald. His eyebrows are jet black, so possibly that was the color of his hair. The clean look of his pate is an interesting look for the man and calls more attention to the intensity of his eyes.

M'rek wears a dark blue shirt, dark wherhide breeches and boots of black. The belt around his waist holds a large knife and is fastened with a belt buckle in the shape of a dragon. There is a High Reaches Weyr rider's knot on his shoulder.

She's not so uninitiated in the ways of the Weyr, if new herself to one, to take in the smell and recognize it for what it is. The pointed nose twitches, a subtle shift of her seated stance directing her toes and body in the other direction. One side of her face however, the one most visible from the lake, is strained with the attempts to keep the unkempt man within sight - either to flee at the first sight of untowardness or out of curiosity remains to be seen. A hand snakes out to draw the basket of laundry back to her side, and in one fluid motion, Satiet gets to her feet, and makes her own way to the lake. It's mid-toedip that M'rek's greeting calls out, and a half beat later for her to realize she's the one being spoken to. Hints of snottiness escape in small slivers, only held back by the polite demeanor that masks her expression. "I have a name." Cool blue eyes skip across the man's features and appearance, dwelling briefly on the knot. "Sir. I half expect that most people would have a temper if you presented yourself in such a condition to them. Least that's what my mother taught me."

M'rek raises his eyebrows as he watches Satient while she speaks. Her first remark sends one side of his mouth curling up in bemusement and the second brings out a short bark of laughter before he leans over again, cupping his hands into the water and then bringing it up to pour over his shaved head. Then, that head is turned to rub the water from his eyes and onto the sleeve of his jacket. Another look is given the addressed lass and M'rek laughs, but while he seems humorous enough there's a haunted quality to his eyes that lingers stubbornly. "Aye. Most people do have a name. Unless they're working on not having a name. Mine would be M'rek." Spoken as if it doesn't matter to him that she didn't ask for the name. Next, his smile broadens a bit, "If I had your name, I could make an effort to use it. And. Aye. Most people do have a temper when I present myself as such. Which would be why I'm here at the lake getting cleaned up before I report. Of course. Most people have a temper when presented with me anyway. So. What does it matter if I'm either muddy. Or just wet. Or even drunker than Faranth's own after a two day's fall?"

"Dragons don't get drunk, do they?" Of course she'd latch onto that last question rather than addressing anything else first. Satiet's eyes narrow thoughtfully at the bronzerider's expression, before a few blinks brings them back to a more normal set. After she skips her toes across the top, the water rippling in the wake of her movements, she wades out to ankle deep, close enough to be able to prop the basket back along the water's edge. "You may call me Satiet. I prefer it to lass, my parents thought quite hard about my name, and decided it so, and it'd be best if it were used, don't you think? A pity to waste a good name like that. Just like it's a pity to waste good liquor when you're already drunk. No taste to it." Curiosity lingers in her pale gaze, and as she leans across to tap fingers along the top of the clothing, her question is voiced, marked with a cultivated lack of interest. "Perhaps it's your looks that bring out the best in people's tempers." A handful of underclothing is picked up and handled with idle contempt, "It's the image you present that matters more, I'd imagine, and you're doing no one a service if you come out like that." When she looks up, her lips curve into a sardonic smile, "I don't know you and with the way you look now?" Askance draws the brows upward, "I'd be hard pressed to waste my time speaking with you." - "Sir."

M'rek laughs and starts to thump his hands over his riding jacket to loosen any mud that's dry enough to flake off. "Faranth's own meaning her rider, not that it matters as I was just spouting nonsense anyway. As I tend to do. Ask anyone." He gives a rakish half smile and then wades back up to shore in a slow walk that could be designed to keep her from bolting if she's the type to scare easy. "Satiet. I imagine I could use it then. If only because it means so much to your parents." As if he knew them from any other stranger. "Is it a waste? Only if it's very good liquor. Should have something to push you over into that sweet blackness, after all, anything worth doing is worth doing all the way. Though. Clearly, I didn't make it all the way tonight. But. Only because of the tantilizing distraction of a brawl." He reaches up and touches two splayed fingers experimentally over different portions of his face. "Not even a black eye. There's going to disappointment over that no doubt." But as to who would be disappointed..anyone's guess from the man's comment. "Aye. Could very well be my looks. Though. My bet would be that it's my 'disrespectful nature.'" Spoken as if that label has been one he's heard applied to himself more times than he can count. "Am I doing no service?" He laughs now, and there's some kind of knowledge in his look, "You'd maybe be surprised what the service of me and my attitude was. Then again. Maybe you wouldn't. No telling with someone I've only just met." Her final remarks has him laughing once more, "Aye. And what's more. There's many who would be quick to tell you to keep from wasting your time speaking to me." He frowns then, "Could cost you dearly."

"Cost me?" Interest piqued, the struggle to keep up her disinterested facade becoming apparent, Satiet glances back at the bronzerider. "I doubt it'd cost me much to waste my time with you. My time, apparently, is the Weyr's to decide what to do. If Kari..." Her words stop abruptly and she shakes her head. Voice kept intentionally light, she comments, "You amuse me enough, for now. Whether it should cost me to waste my time with you, remains to be seen, don't you think?" Dark lashes brush across her lower eyelid as she peers down, readying herself to crouch into the water and begin washing the clothing in her hands. "I could think of far better ways to sleep off a hangover, but I suppose someone of your temperament -would- prefer a good brawl over anything else." The underthings are dropped to float along the top of the water, the coloring darkening in the places that are getting wet, and she straightens, offering M'rek a beautific smile in the process. At her sides, the now empty hands clench reflexively in loosely held fists. "If you're worried about disappointing people, or a person, or anyone in general, I could help you remedy the lack of a black eye. It really wouldn't do to disappoint people who are counting on you. And my brothers taught me well enough."

There's a shrugging of the bronzerider's broad shoulders then, as if he's trying to erase his last words, or at least to make them into something lighter than they really are to him. M'rek flashes a smile, as if that will dissolve the whisper of menace in regards to speaking with him and he drawls out the next words lightly, "Likely won't cost you anything but wear and tear to your ears, for I can talk when I've a mind to. And when I've a mind not to as well. I'm rare short on words." He steps free of the water and then moves his neck to stretch it before he relaxes his shoulders back once more and adopts a casual looking stance. "Aye. I would prefer a good brawl to most anything else." A half smile covers his mouth and then he regards her with greater interest of his own, life coming into his eyes as he chuckles lightly, regarding first that striking smile of hers and then the clenching of her fists. "Now then. That's quite promising. But then it would likely come around to me brawling with a candidate and that wouldn't do either of us any good. Even if it was just you doing me a favor. All things in my life have a way of being as the snowball rolling down hill, and it's not usual for people to ask for an explanation first before the punishment is handed out. Unless of course you're looking for a quick trip home?" He pauses for air and then asks another question, "Kari. Psamanth's Karimina?"

Aislinn has arrived.

Two people are in the waters, the slighter of the pair ankle-deep in the water with a basket of laundry close by. Satiet keeps one eye on the clothing and the other half of her attention on M'rek. The smile on her face warms up, almost touching her eyes in genuinity. "I can listen. I can talk as well. Though talking is overrated, at times." Her eyes slide from the various features on his face finally to the long scar down his cheek. "I'll let you go this time, but I don't forget too easily." Crouching once again, water lapping against the rolled up hem of her pants, she begins to swish the clothing vigorously, reaching out for a small tub within her basket of sweetened sandstone. "Brawling's only disallowed if anyone finds out, and unless you want to tell people you got hit by a girl, I'm sure no one has to know. If a lack of a black eye disappoints people, a black eye given by a girl, I'm sure, will just make you that much more esteemable in people's eyes." Her motions pause for a second, resuming as she speaks, "Yes, Karimina. Psamanth and Karimina."

M'rek is only ankle deep in the water now as he speaks with Satiet, his face drying out in the breeze and the rays of the sun, "Aye. Well. Maybe when I know you better." He responds in a more serious manner than he's adopted so far and then he gives himself a shake, "I either wasn't drunk enough, or I got too much adrenaline in the brawl and wasted all that lovely ale." He truly sounds disappointed in this, as if for him getting tanked was an art form. "Wouldn't be the first time a female's left a mark on my face, temporary or permanent." There's a shrug that goes with this statement and then he moves on as if he's talking about the weather, "I suppose I can survive one night off without rolling in with a black eye. Day's not over yet, after all. Maybe what's coming to me just hasn't arrived as of yet. I know Kari, we stood together. Been a candidate long then?" As if the idea that search is on hasn't been foremost in his mind of late and he seems to be trying to rectify that. "I don't know many of the candidates yet."

Tobias has arrived.

Aislinn strolls along the lake shore, and sits in the sand. She scrubs some cool water onto her face, and sighs with relief. Ais rubs her sore ankles, and her shoulders after that. Hearing something about a black eye, she looks up to see M'rek and Satiet. Too far away to see knots, she says just loud enough so they can hear, "Reaches' duties." She scoots hardly any closer, wiggling her fingers at them. Back to the sand. Ais wiggles her toes around in it, and starts to make little sand mounds.

In the sky directly above, Cibeth springs powerfully into the sky from Cibeth's ledge, low on the Eastern bowl wall.
In the sky directly above, Cibeth closes her wings and dives into the lake with a splash!
Above the bowl, to the west, Ulfianth rises up into the sky from the ground below.
Above the bowl, to the west, Ulfianth turns, flying east.
In the sky directly above, Ulfianth closes his wings and dives into the lake with a splash!
In the lake, Cibeth warbles with delight having beaten the bigger bronze in the race to the lake.

"She searched me a sevenday or so ago, Psamanth did. Karimina neglected to mention all that candidacy entails and somehow, the Teaching Songs skip over that part." A lock of hair that falls over her eyes is pushed away with impatience, tucked behind her ear. "You stood with her, and impressed together? How does your dragon take to drinking your guts out so often then? And," a small smile plays on her lips, the look she shoots M'rek amused, "How did you stand candidacy and weyrlinghood without getting yourself sent home so early? You seem the type to attract trouble like that." A finger snap accompanies her last words. Shading her eyes from the afternoon sun, Aislinn is hailed with a lift of her free hand, "Tillek's duties back. Reaches as well, I suppose." - "You know me now, I'd say you know enough."
That was Satiet, yes.

Tobias walks in from the bowl, his hands casually stuffed in his pockets. He flicks his glance up every now and again, taking in his surroundings. He doesn't even notice that anyone else is there, so he keeps walking, eventually starting to whistle a tuneless thing. Tobi adds a little skip to his step, and slows down some to examine the water.

M'rek turns his head a little and nods to Aislinn in greeting with a uptake of his head before he waves a hand as well. There's another nod then, this one of understanding at Satiet's words, "Aye. I think they like to leave out the part about back breaking labor and not being able to get drunk every day. It's kind of a sneaky thing." As if M'rek were hoodwinked himself one way or another. Still, his eyes track the flight of a summer hued dragon as it glides across the bowl and then dips into the lake, riding straps and all. The bronzerider curses, half under his breath and then says outloud, "Water can be rough on leather. Anyway." He moves his eyes back to Aislinn and then the closer Satiet, "Congratulations for the search, regardless of how much was left out about it. Aye. Kari and I stood and impressed both. Lord Ulf doesn't generally approve, but we agree to disagree on the matter of my drinking. And the past couple of weeks he's been more than understanding about it, all things considered." The laugh that comes now is genuine, "I'm particularly sneaky. That's how. That and people can't bust you when you catch them at trouble as well. Not that I'm encouraging anything, A'course." Oh no, not M'rek. Then. "Oh. So knowing the one is knowing them all?" Perhaps a deliberate misunderstanding for the sparkle to his eyes before the bronzerider is nodding his head to Tobias in greeting.

Aislinn looks over at the two conversing, and nods to them each. "Nice day, isn't it? I think so." She listens, and then grins at the mention of search. "Thanks-oh...wait, you were searched, too?" Of course that question was directed at Satiet. "I'm Aislinn, by the way. I've been searched about a sevenday ago I think." Ais examines the dragons diving into the lake with an amused grin. "I do hope they don't hit their heads on anything. That would be horrible." She, too, nods a greeting to Tobias. "Hello there."

"Something like that." Satiet's not about to correct the misunderstanding, perhaps the twitch of her lips indicating she understands the deliberate intent of M'rek's comment as well as the (un)intended advice. "I'll keep the congratulations close to heart when I'm out mucking stables. Some of the unluckies get to do that today. I've heard dragon mucking is just as bad so I suppose it's good enough training." Her voice trails of dubiously, attention refocusing on the laundry and watching the mill of people coming in and out. "It'll be hard to punch you now and not get sent home anyway. People like you usually find something else to occupy themselves or their bruises." Aislinn receives a nod and another soapsudded wave, "Satiet. And see, you're meeting us in droves now, M'rek. Sir. He was worried he wouldn't meet enough of us candidates." So putting words in other people's mouth isn't always polite, but the smile she offers Aislinn is wide and openly frank.

Ulfianth wades out of the lake, dripping.
Ulfianth has arrived.

Tobias scratches the back of his head, and looks up as he's spoken to, only barely catching that nod from M'rek. "Greetings, everyone." A nod in turn for each, and he turns so he can face them, sometimes glancing back down at the water. "How are all of you doing today?" Tobi spies the basket of clothing that Satiet holds. "Hmm...laundry. Forgot to do that today. Oh well." He shrugs, and raises a corner of his mouth.

Aislinn eeps as the brown on her shoulder wakes up squawking and scratching. "Food! Okay!" She stands up, and stops the firelizard from going into a complete frenzy by stuffing a meatroll in his mouth. "Sheesh. Um...sorry about Torchwing, he's a feisty little bug." She grins broadly at Satiet. "Congratulations on search! Satiet, was it? Sorry, I've forgotten the name already. And you are, sir?" Too bad. Ais didn't catch his name the first time. She only smiles and nods Tobias' way before returning her focus back to the others.

"Aye. It's quite the nice day." If Aislinn gets close enough, she might notice that M'rek smells strongly of alcohol, and looks like he's been out for a really long day, maybe even the bronzerider's just recently getting home from the day before. He chuckles lightly, "Two candidates then. Already doubling my pool of knowledge in that regard. I'm M'rek. Nice to meet you Aislinn. Not to worry about Lord Ulf's head, it's as hard as they come." He seems amused by the flow of banter between he and Satiet and he says, "Sometimes you can swap chores. But Aye. If you impress, there's mucking enough, though only for awhile and most are too besotted to care." The rider pats his jacket down and then pulls a flask out from an inner pocket as he continues to speak, "Aye. People like me are always finding something to occupy themselves, be it meddling with sharding Lord Holders or hoisting one pint too many." The bronze dragon that has claimed this most unlikely of riders as his shakes the water from his hide a respectful distance away and then lumbers over closer to the people in a slow manner that manages to look latent rather than lazy. M'rek raises an eyebrow at the dragon and then drinks from his flask before he says, "I'm well myself, thanks Lad."

"Thanks, Aislinn was it?" Back to work, Satiet's tongue clucks disapprovingly at the usage of 'lad,' much in the same way her nose wrinkled at being called lass. "Double your knowledge, double your chances to place bets I'm sure." The basket is indicated with a jerk of her chin, "You should use some of that sweetsand to cover up your smell if you mean to report soon. Smelling good will probably win you points, or at least throw the other person off skelter for a little while. Mind the clothes. Don't need anyone to think I'm drinking when I'm not. Yet." The dragon that dips into the water is given closer scrutiny after M'rek's words, a sudden enlightenment dawning in her cool eyes. Tobias is given a quick look and a careful nod, "Well enough. Water's warmer than it looks if you're thinking of joining me in laundry."

Tobias kicks at some sand, not at all in the direction of the others, and lets out a light chuckle at the comments on M'rek's alcohol smell. He looks up when spoken to again, and hmms thoughtfully. "Well, I didn't brink my laundry with me...but...I could help you with what you had if you want some weight off of your shoulders. I wouldn't mind helping." Tobi walks closer, examining what she has left in the basket. "Would you like to split what's in there?"

M'rek laughs a bit and drinks once more from his flask before he reseals it and tucks it away. Wading back into the water the bald bronzerider does help himself to a handful of sweetsand and bends over the water, rubbing the grains between his hands as he lathers up. The suds are rubbed over forearms and then over his head and at his face and neck. "I suppose I could get the worst of it off. Not that I want it thought that I don't need a day to sleep it off. There's a careful balance to be maintained with these things. To be drunk enough, and yet not so drunk that the Weyrleader worries I really have lost my mind. Even if I very well have." M'rek seems to do most things with a running commentary. "Bets. Aye. Very useful things, as long as you win. Betting on candidates is generally not a sure thing. Still. Maybe I'll give it a go this time around." He uses more water to rinse off the suds, hiding a sly sort of smile as Tobias offers to help Satiet with her chores. He almost seems ready to laugh outloud when he suddenly straightens and throws a look over his shoulder at his dragon. The large beast has seated himself at the edge of the water and is giving a disapproving sort of look at the small gathering of people. M'rek chortles and looks Ulfianth over closely before he glances back to Satiet and Tobias, eyes bright with curiousity.

"Just be mindful of the undergarments. I know most girls prefer them not to be touched by male hands." Satiet smirks and nudges the basket over with a small push. "There's sweaters in there that you have to be sure not to stretch. Otherwise the owners'll have to gain a few pounds to look good in them. If they even looked good before," she adds under her breath. Throughout, she keeps a gauge on M'rek's commentary and reactions, as well as those of his dragons, watching the man lather up. The corners of her lips tug down into an expression of careful study, the decision to speak finally made in regards to one particular comment. Matter-of-factly she begins, "Nothing's ever a sure thing unless you carry a big stick and make it so. And even then, luck and chance will have its way with you I'm sure." A shrug ripples the fabric of her clothing, lips curved into a slow, half-smile. "Bet on me, I dare you."

Tobias nods, and avoids all undergarments in the basket by way of warning. He takes a few of the sweaters, and then anything else he can find to even out his load with hers. Sighing, he gets to work, scrubbing, rubbing, rinsing. Looking up at Satiet from his crouching position, he smirks. "Well, now it'll get done faster, no?" A curious tip of the head in M'rek's direction, Tobi frowns. "Is everything okay over there? You're lookin' at me funny."

Ulfianth closes his inner lids over his eyes and arches his great head forward as he regards first the candidate, Satiet, and then the young man, Tobias. There is a disdainful snort from the haughty looking bronze and then he yawns hugely and starts to regard one of his foreclaws as if it were the most fascinating thing in his whole world. M'rek remains quiet a moment, or perhaps it's only that the dialogue he's engaged in now can only be heard by he and the regal Ulfianth until he suddenly answers Tobias, "Am I, Lad? Aye. I might well be. Lord Ulf thinks you should stand for the eggs, but he's not generally much of one to take an insterest in the affairs of humans. Be that as it may, you might want to still consider the standing. All hard work and discomfort aside, it's an interesting thing to do with yourself for some months." A little more water takes the last of the suds off the bronzerider's head and then he looks at Satiet with something of a deeply intense look, "Aye. I know more about things not being sure than I wish I did. Many a candidate doesn't even make it to the final test." He doesn't really even seem to be speaking about weyr candidates, and yet, he could very well be for the way the words are couched. "I can carry a big stick. Aye. That I can when there's no other way, but I prefer..well. It doesn't matter how I prefer matters to be handled. They are as they are." Now he surely does speak to impression for he goes on with, "Not that a stick would be any help on the sands. Aye. Luck and chance. Well. Those things will have their way. Still. It doesn't hurt to have long ears and the wit to use what you know. Bet on you? I think I will." Yet, he doesn't say in which fashion the bet will be made.

"He looks at everyone funny from what I gather. It's just the way he looks." The reproof in Satiet's intonation fades out as M'rek makes his offer, her blue gaze darting to take in Tobias again, reassessing the boy. "I'd tell you not to accept, but I doubt it'd do much good in the long run. And only pansies don't accept just for fear of hard work. Though, if you like to drink and make merry, perhaps it's better." Her advise is teasing, but the pull on her cheeks is strained by the quirking of her lips this way and that. "Big sticks are figurative, bronzerider. You could easily just beat someone over the head with the words you're so fond of saying aloud, than a tangible plank of wood." From her crouched position, she gathers up the articles of clothing being washed and sets them into a clear compartment along one side of the basket. Thus straightened she levels the rider an incautious stare, misunderstanding the subject of M'rek's initial words, "You do that, I don't plan on not making it to the final test. That, at least, I can assure."

Tobias shakes out the shirt he was washing as he nods to M'rek. "Yes, sir, you were." He nearly falls over at the offer, slipping on something as he fidgets. Catching himself, he straightens up, and raises a corner of his mouth. "I accept your offer. Um...Lord Ulf. And M'rek." He winks over at Satiet. "Drinking and making merry aren't always that fun for me. Plus, you're right. Only pansies pass this kind of thing up." Tobi falls silent again, and keeps washing the clothes, a very broad grin being worn on his face. "Brilliant."

M'rek gives Satiet a close look of his own and then he nods his head and laughs dryly, "Aye. Well said, Satiet. Words can be such weapons in some hands." Spoken as if he knows this far too well. "Words as daggers. Words and daggers. The favorite sport of some, are you Bitran then, Satiet?" His smile is lopsided as he speaks to the girl again, "Good then. Now I'll know which way to bet." Attention shifts to Tobias and the smile on the bronzerider's face changes to something either more warmly felt or less genuine of the man's true emotions. "Good then. Always nice to face fate head on and see what's in store. Could be a lifemate for you, or at the very least, a close up look at the hatching of Lhiannonth's eggs. You can report to the barracks for candidates when you've a mind for it. That'll be your lodging for the duration." He's quiet a moment and could be talking to the searching dragon, but the bronze now seems all engrossed in the worship of his own talons. "Congratulations. I wish you luck." And that's got the ring of truth to it.

Tobias has left.

Satiet's expression changes, the smile she offers Tobias sweetly tempered and verging on wheedling, "Good for you. I'll be sure to remember you're not a pansy. Even write it down somewhere if I can find a slip of hide to waste on that. Do you mind taking care of the rest of this for me? I'll be back, just need to get my feet out of the water for a bit." On cue a knee bends, the girl looking over her shoulder at the bottom of her feet, "Wrinkles. They're getting a fair bit waterlogged, and since you're not a pansy and nice enough to help out, you won't mind would you?" Without awaiting the new candidate's answer, the girl slogs out from the water, feet dancing somewhat along the sandy shores to shake off excess water. "Tillek, sir," she replies archly, the emphasis on the title a combination of sarcastic and amused. "Close enough that it doesn't matter if I wasn't born at the big Hold myself. I'll see you around sometime, M'rek. Hopefully not smelling as horrid next time, and a little less tipsy." She watches Tobias move off, her nose wrinkling, "Or not." Filled with dried clothing and wet, she reaches down to pick up her basket and props it on her hip. "Will have to finish this tomorrow when the sun's at peak again to dry. Afternoon then."

Ulfianth
Summer's golden bronze soaks the hide of this young dragon, sharp lines highlighting icy edges and bright expression. Sunlight seems to filter through him from within, illuminating joints and breast, ricocheting off talons' dark gleam and emerging as a shade-dappled pattern on smooth surface. Even a small amount of light pervades lean wingsails, a glow that swirls amidst lighter flecks like stirred sugar. Clearer strains of bronze trace a stubborn maw and even neckridges, and a tart, translucent green forms frayed crescents near long tail and powerful shoulders. The balance is subtle yet striking, cool and crisp against the darker, burnt shades that fade up from tailtip and talons to merge with shimmery warmth. At 3 Turns, 4 months, and 0 days old, Ulfianth is approximately 38 meters in length with a wingspan of 63 meters.

M'rek watches the attempted shuffling off of chore with amusement and yet doesn't get involved. "Tillek? Hmm." A comment that's vague enough before M'rek nods, "Aye. See you around sometime then. Maybe I'll smell better. Like it as not, I'll probably be either drunker or on my way to get so." Still, he chuckles and then he waves to the lass before he turns to regard that dragon of his. "Now then, your Lordship. Let me have a look at those straps."
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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
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Logs:Spicy Sweetness

2014-11-22T03:56:56Z

Satiet: Created page with "{{Log |who=Satiet, Linnea |what= |where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |when=day 25 month 7 turn 1 interval 10 |gamedate=2004.12.17 |quote= |weather= |mentions= |ooc= |icons..."

{{Log
|who=Satiet, Linnea
|what=
|where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
|when=day 25 month 7 turn 1 interval 10
|gamedate=2004.12.17
|quote=
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon satiet.jpg,
|icons=
|desc=
|log=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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{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, Clutch 22 Logs
}}