Difference between revisions of "Logs:Imminently Glowing"

Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ)

The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.

Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.

It is a spring night, 20:50 of day 16, month 5, turn 18 of Interval 10.

The warm spring night is clear, and so are the freshly washed glasses at the Snowasis. No more smears threaten to contaminate the booze these days, as they had during that terrible, unspeakable time between their forced abandonment by the lower caverns staff and Tiriana's acquisition of new responsibilities and a new boss. Some residents complain things are different, some reminisce about the not-so-long-ago old days, but others are too busy drowning their sorrows or celebrating how G'how made it three times around the Bowl with an egg balanced in his mouth. A rotten egg. Which cracked on round three-and-a-half, and hopefully the marks were worth it. A server heads out to the patio ledge, bringing them a platter of refills, and Leova oh-so-idly watches the swish of skirts from the couch by the fire she's stolen rather than sneak more glances this way and that. She could have spoken up during one of their breakfasts. Could have left things up to chance. But instead, Vrianth and Teonath had a little talk, and here the greenrider sits.

Between celebrations and commiserations that dot the Snowasis, its ledge, and the bowl below, it's reasonable that Satiet's just a little late. Particularly as it was a between-the-dragons made appointment. Particularly when one half of that dragon-secretary pair 'forgets' to mention this meeting. But despite her lack of punctuality, the dark-haired woman's gait is leisurely, side-stepping the staggerings of a drunk G'how as he aims another feat for the night: just how many shots can he knock back while staying on his feet. Moving past the bar, just the lift of two fingers, the catch of the busy bartender's eye, and a nod of acknowledgement from him to her is enough for the weyrwoman to place her usual order before she finally moves to find Leova. "Did you get anything to drink?" arises the voice from the hubbub and good cheer; a voice that comes from behind the greenrider's chair.

Startled eyes lift, her head tilting back. And then the greenrider laughs. "I did! It was right over..." She looks. It isn't there. "It was there," Leova winds up with, sliding her legs off the length of the couch where she'd guarded the spot, either for Satiet or whomever else might take it while the raven-haired woman lurks: the woman whose hair is notably /not/ the growing-out bristle of the assistant weyrlingmaster's. And then she lifts a shoulder: bound to be more where that came from, hm?

Indeed. It'd be nice to think that she'd get such speedy service simply for her looks and not just her knot, or that stunning blue-eyed stare, and it's not unlikely she could, but that theory will never be tested. Two martini glasses, polished crystal clear filled with a bright red concoction and garnished with limes, are brought out before Satiet even rounds to take a seat. No thanks, but a simple drop of her chin serves as her gratitude and dismissal to the barmaid. "Here's something to tide you over until you find your missing glass." Then, she sits, pale eyes aglittering as the sharp face lifts to meet Leova's gaze. "So...," a thin smile quirks lopsidedly, "It's not breakfast."

Two. Leova gives the glasses a passing glance at first, enough to track their motion and redness and little more, the possibility that Satiet might drink them both clearly not much of a surprise. But then she's looking back at those glittering eyes, finding her smile curve up just a little at one side as she reaches to take that not-quite-as-glittering glass, and raises it to the other woman as toasted thanks of her own. For the drink. For showing up. Whichever. "Getting to try what you picked. I'm looking forward to it." It's not, after all, breakfast. "Satiet," she says, still searching out the other woman's gaze, Tillek low in her voice. "Were you trained? Into your job. The way you trained Lujayn."

The slighter woman takes it as a compliment, that Leova would look so forward to a drink of her choosing, and in her slight forward head tip, her dark bangs sweep over one eye. Before she sips, a hand lifts to rake fingers through those bangs and push them away, and as she sits back, turns to survey the bar. Did she hear Leova? "G'how's going to make himself sick," Satiet observes over the rim of her glass.

Long hair. Longer hair, at least. Leova doesn't spare wistfulness more than a moment. Nor does she repeat herself. Just: "Question is, how soon. Seems to be enjoying the ride." She sips her drink, then holds it to the hearthlight, lets the color flame. Glances at Satiet over its top. Doesn't add to it. Yet.

"I don't envy him his hangover," states the sipping weyrwoman, her gaze seeming fixated on the brownrider. "He's just lucky L'vae is his wingleader." As if L'vae being his wingleader might lessen any punishments in the morning; or so goes the assumption. Slim limbs move, legs lifting to be crossed at her knees, so one foot hangs in the air and shakes lightly with remnant energy from the day, but with each successive sip of her drink, her shoulders sink back a little more. As comfortable in the silence as Leova fails to add or push the question, pale eyes cast to the flames and then slowly creeping back towards the other woman. Finally, "I was trained late to my job, as my predecessor did not believe goldriders should be trained in weyrlinghood." There's a ghost of her quirked smile from before, though very little actual humor colors it. "But yes, I was trained after I graduated. Though it was more thrown into the pool for the sharks to circle rather than trained itself."

"Once upon a time," Leova recounts after another sip of her own drink to wet her throat, after a smile at Satiet across the lip of the glass, "L'vae sent one back to bed. Said they'd talk about making it up later. Or so the story goes." It might have been early on. Might even have been well-deserved. That's one part of the silence. The other is silent in truth but for those flames' flicker, and now the greenrider's gotten to prying the slice of lime from her glass, picking at the peel: can't take her anywhere. Her gaze lifts now and again, when Satiet begins to speak, and the firelight catches on the smile that hasn't disappeared entirely, just relaxed into a hint of a curve. "Thrown to the sharks." Then, "Had one wingleader, kept us on the side of the pool when the sharks were in a frenzy. To take care of us. Another tightened things up."

There's a pause and a quizzical tip of her head to one side, attempting to decipher what Leova states; to find that hidden meaning. But it's been a long day, and the call of the fruity liquid in her triangular cup beckons more than understanding what Leova might mean. Slow sips, thoughtful eyes, and finally a purse of her lips over the glass's rim returns the attention of her gaze to the fire. "And which," she finally asks of the dancing flames, "Was my Weyrleader?" Because Leova's had oh so many wingleaders in her riding career.

Wingleader past, wingleader more distantly past, wingleader... "Future, is the rumor." Leova bites away a bit of pith, lets the rind slip back in. Wingleader present? "Just now, mine pretty well lets us swim where we're going to. Sometimes it's a little crazy-making. But he's got this... assurance. Don't want to disappoint."

And she smiles. This tiny smile that barely hooks her lips upward. And her dark-haired head tips, glossy bangs falling forward. "Do you predict the future, or do you just expect the status quo? She'll rise soon." The last added with a little sigh of hers and her dragon's unescapable fate, and it's enough of a change of subject that keeps at bay, for now, the broaching the topic of wingleader present.

The rind's sinking unattended, Leova transfixed on Satiet by now. "Does he... realize?" She remembers to breathe, remembers to drink, must remember the present but leaves it be. But she also isn't, certainly isn't, dancing in the streets.

"Four years," is all Satiet says in response with that brow-lifted cock-eyed look. Simple math should be, well, simple for even a man such as N'thei. "I haven't decided yet." As if the fate of the Weyr's future were entirely in her devious little hands. "I'm sorry," her dark hair tosses back as she sinks into her seat again, "You were saying?" A beat passes to reclaim the lots thoughts of seconds prior, and then, with a slightly tight, tepid little smile, "He does seem to incite those emotions in people."

Still struck, Leova finds herself murmuring, "Your Weyrleader."

There's a moment where the weyrwoman's fine features startle, turning a little pale in the light and then flushing about the jaw line. Her eyes shift quickly, shifting gears from what she meant to what Leova construed as well as sifting through her thoughts to recall just what she said, but only comes up with an affirmation, "My Weyrleader," and pale, faintly wavering eyes turned to the greenrider. Questioning? Challenging? Quizzical, or just a jumble?

It brings Leova forward in her seat, all of it, Satiet in her eyes as though, if she only looked hard and deep enough, she could foretell future and present together. "They say," she says after a moment, "That if we /between/ back. In time. If we didn't make it, then we won't. But what if we do, just some/when/ else? And if we skip forward instead, see what will come to pass, if maybe not what it means..." Abruptly: "Don't know what I'm saying. Wish I could blame the drink."

Wavering turns sharp. Mixed emotions fall flat. "It's dangerous." Expecting that to be warning enough, the slender woman stands, her remnant drink drained. "I'll pretend I don't know what you're saying and I'll blame the drink if it makes you feel any better. The future and past are worthless without the present. And-," Satiet reaches out, her hand to the other woman's shoulder for a brief brush, "If you're wondering, the answer is yes. Good night, Leova."

Dangerous: the tilt of Leova's head accedes in the present, for the present, its cropped auburn bristles long enough to be fur. Pretending. Blaming. She can be grateful, if not for the need for it. Amber eyes lift only near the end, at the other woman's answer and at her touch, and some sort of sympathy presses so briefly into both before she's sinking deeper into her seat with her own glass, her almost-full glass of the sort she's gotten used to nursing, to make those marks last and last and last. "Satiet." And then quickly, so as to not seem too much to stay her, "Good night."