Difference between revisions of "Logs:Orange Herdbeasts for Istans"

It is an autumn night, 5:30 of day 24, month 10, turn 17 of Interval 10.

It's an early morning in the cold. A very, VERY early morning. And there's only one person by the lake shore as fog rolls in from the west. X'lar jogs along the shoreline at a steady pace. This is someone who has a lot on his mind. Obviously, if he's up -this- early.

There's purpose in the long strides that carry Satiet down her ledge to the bowl and across the relatively empty length towards the lake. Perhaps it's Teonath's jeweled eyes that've sussed out X'lar's frame or a timely inquiry of the Istan rider's dragon. Or hey, even a question sent up to the watchrider of Malsaeth or his rider's whereabouts. Regardless of how she sussed her information, the slight woman's quick to appear on the lake's edge with a hide held at hand and a thinning of her lips while pale eyes scan for someone and finds X'lar's slow jog. Bingo. And she waits.

It doesn't take long for X'lar to realize there's someone waiting by the edge of the lake. Credit to the bronzerider, he doesn't stumble once. Maybe he's been up for even longer. His pace slows, his eyes studying that look on the Weyrwoman's face. "Good morning," he finally greets Satiet. Jog now complete, he's standing there in front of her. There's a brief twitch of his eyebrows upward, curiousity mingled with trepidation. He does pinch himself, his right hand moving to his left wrist where he pinches the skin there.

The autumn air is crisp and the fog that rolls in brushes everything with its light mist, including the slender woman waiting, who looks so expectantly upwards when X'lar approaches and slows. Wordless, the hide is held out to the bronzerider, and Satiet just quirks her lips to one side and lifts one brow. Then, she waits again. When unfolded, the hide reads: [ For the Istan. ]

X'lar blinks once at Satiet, asking quietly, "Mail?" He frowns faintly at the hide again, taking it, reading, then looking back to Satiet. "I don't understand," he tells her. "What is this supposed to be?" Even if he looks bright-eyed and awake, incomprehension flashes across his face and takes hold. He looks from the hide once again and then back to Satiet, apparently expecting her to make him understand.

"You tell me," says not only the cold voice that finally finds a clipped outlet, but the brilliant blue eyes that bore up and into X'lar's bluish gray. "It arrived this morning. With some specially marked feed for your dragon. Tell me, X'lar, why would Ista's Weyrleaders do this?" She even smiles, that overly saccharine Satiet sort of smile, that isn't so good-natured at all.

X'lar's jaw drops at Satiet's words. "With some -what-?" X'lar asks, stunned. Dumbfounded, his gaze remains on the goldrider. "I-" he begins. There's a lot of insecurity there, drawn out simply by that one single smile of hers. "I-" And again, he begins and stops. There's that inability to speak. Rendered speechless, possibly. But then, finally, courage seems to well up. Not all that frozen. "I spoke to N'thei once," he finally speaks. "When I thought I was going to move in after the flight. The Weyrleader told me that Malsaeth could not eat from the herd." His eyes aren't going anywhere, focused on the thin brows of the slender woman. "I had talked to Ista's Weyrwoman and Weyrleader about it at separate times." Again he stops. "I believe they have sent me these beasts and the food because they did not want my dragon to starve. Or have him have to leave the Weyr while the eggs are on the sands." And that's it. No more words, just... awkwardness.

It's early in the morning, like before the sun's up, and Teonath's desert voice interrupts whatever slumber Wyaeth might be indulging in; « Did N'thei say Malsaeth may not eat of our herd? » Somewhere in the background of the gold's thoughts there's the bleating of orange-painted herdbeasts. (Teonath to Wyaeth)

To Teonath, Wyaeth, wha? « N'thei says a lotta things. You expect I gotta running tally on all of 'em or...? » That's Wyaeth-speak for buying time to check into this matter, since of course he'd never cross-talk his queen.

To Wyaeth, Teonath, cold silence. Some dragons have poor memories, other dragons rely heavily on their riders. If Teonath hasn't forgotten, it's likely still on the forefront of Satiet's mind. They're not supposed to be talking.

To Teonath, Wyaeth conveys grudgingly, « Ain't exactly what he said, but sure, close enough. » Could be N'thei's words, could be Wyaeth's spin on them, not as though either are inclined to clarify themselves.

Throughout X'lar's speech, Satiet's groomed brows just lift a fraction higher with each awkward comment. High, high, high; until those pale eyes, widened in askance start to look a little pained for all the awkwardness. Maybe even a little embarrassed for the Istan bronzerider. "Is that so?" Perhaps X'lar's not the only person on her shit list now, and there's a moment's pause, the pale eyes drifting back to the Weyrleaders' complex and then returning to X'lar slower. "What-," there's a beat, as she collects her thoughts and then continues, arms folding over her chest, "Would you have done if you had moved here immediately after the flight for ... oh, four months?"

"You shouldn't... get mad at him," X'lar replies, perhaps actually reading Satiet's initial question well enough. But then he's back on topic. "It was a stupid move on my part," the Istan explains. "First flight won. First flight won and it was Rielsath's. N'thei thinks it's only because I kissed Lu's ass so much that Rielsath had no real choice in the matter." The accusation is quickly followed by a clenching of his jaw. Restraint. "I was excited. I was so totally excited that I wasn't honestly thinking." Realization flickers, but he doesn't act on it. He instead looks to the hide again and explains, "I hope this doesn't affect whatever relationship Reaches has with Ista, because honestly? I don't want this to become some..." The next word is spoken like he'd just had a glass of milk gone bad: "... disaster." He takes a deep breath, his focus remaining on Satiet. "I can understand had I actually stayed for those months, that Malsaeth would have eaten a lot of your herd," he finally says, beats later, perhaps finally acting on that realization of his.

"And? What would we have gotten in return other than your dragon's sperm?" It's flatly spoken, so easily said despite the vulgarity. "Would you be transferring to High Reaches permanently and settling in our wings? Would you be earning your keep in other ways? How would you justify Malsaeth eating four months worth of feed? I'm sorry," Satiet leans forward, deliberate humor infused into her voice, "I don't know if I believe that two dragons fucking," there's the vulgar again, "And exchanging fluids, warrants a free ride. Do you?" And again, that smile emerges, flowering brightly and punctuated with a wave of that hide beneath X'lar's nose. "Unfortunately, I think disaster's already here in the form of orange-painted beasts. Have you seen them yet?"

X'lar gapes back at Satiet, repeating the words "Dragon's sperm." Surprised by the woman's vulgarity? Or perhaps it's just how flatly the vulgarity is spoken? No matter, he shakes his head at her. "As I said," he begins. "I obviously wasn't thinking about... any of that at the time." He shakes his head and offers vaguely apologetically: "I would not have expected a free ride nor be able to justify my beast eating your beasts." That smile of hers, as it flowers, seems to encourage him. "No," he says of the orange-painted beasts. "I haven't." And then, just to clarify: "I won't be putting in a request to High Reaches. These last few weeks have made me realize just how different High Reaches is from my home." Another pause and he even smiles now. "I hope this did not affect your daily schedule by that much, Satiet."

For his smile, Satiet's own disappears, turning into a crooked hook and that little drop of her chin of askance once more. "You should go see them, the sight they make in our feeding pens. Teonath's issued an order that no dragon of Reaches will partake of those orange-painted beasts. Perhaps," the corners of her eyes twitch with that ill-veiled mocking. "The paint will make Malsaeth's private feast taste even better." No? More soberly, a little less cavalier with spreading her mocking and with the dry look she typically favors X'lar with, "I'm letting this slide this time. Next time, unless it's your intention to have diplomatic fall out between two Weyrs, watch what you say, bronzerider."

"I will try to think before I speak from now on," X'lar tells her. Certainty in that voice of his. "Thank you for your leniency toward this matter." He takes a deep breath, his attention still on Satiet. "I am sure Malsaeth will be pleased, no matter what." Whether or not the ill-veiled mocking at all phases him, is unclear, for even in the early morning hours, he still seems to have trained his features better in the face of the Reaches Weyrwoman.

There's that smirk again, that small curl of her mouth and that tip of her head forward so the dark hair falls over one eye. "I seem to recall our first meeting was at this lake and me warning of you of something similar. Isn't it funny how things seem to have changed so little over the years?" Satiet takes a step back, hands coming out in supplication except the sentiment behind her expression isn't anywhere near begging. "Welome to High Reaches. I hope your temporary weyr here is to your satisfaction, bronzerider. And," a finger lifts, climbing slowly along her cheek to press into the dimple that isn't impressed right now, "Thank you. For your dragon's sperm. Now, duty calls. Have a good morning, X'lar."

"I'm sorry," he replies back. To not changing enough? To not changing fast enough? All of the above? "The temporary weyr is great," he adds thankfully. "And thank you for your hospitality." There's a brief pause. Dragon's sperm, he mouths to himself still somewhat stunned. X'lar nods once more to the Weyrwoman. "Of course," he replies. "Have a good morning as well, Satiet." There's not much more he can do or say at this point, but his attention does break ultimately, leaving him to start quickening his pace for the last half of his jog. Malsaeth, to his credit, flies above now, perhaps ready to inspect the orange-colored of the beasts below.

"No need to apologize," is the last thing Satiet says. In fact, there's a note of smugness in her cool-colored voice; as if his slow growth is expected. And with a slight pivot of her sandaled feet, a little flare of her white skirts, the weyrwoman returns in a much more leisurely path towards the Weyr proper and whatever duties she might have.