Difference between revisions of "Logs:Of Honesty"

Melata wanders in from the main bowl, probably to get a glimpse at how the eggs are doing.

Rathin isn't looking so great today. His left cheek is a bit red, but his right is visibly bruised, starting to go a bit purple. He's settled himself down on the lowest tier of the hatching grounds, first row - the perfect place to prop feet up on the railing, a slate resting on his lap. Although there's a bit of charcoal in his hand, he doesn't actually seem to be doing anything with it. In fact, it's a distinct possibility - judging by the bend of his neck - that he's fast asleep.

Melata shakes her head as she sees the napping Candidate, and knows that falling asleep at any place outside your cot is not especially wise, especially when there are Candidates around. She goes up to the boy, "Wake up, there, lad. This is not the best of places to sleep, you know." She shakes a shoulder.

"Just a bit longer," Rathin mutters, exhaling. When his shoulder is shaken, one eye cracks, peering at the offender with irritation. "It's the perfect place to sleep," he counters. "It's warm, and it's nice and quiet. Although Jenryth eating her afternoon snack earlier was, granted, a bit disconcerting." The other eye opens after a wide yawn, and he examines Melata more closely, eyes straying to her knot with a weary, "-Ma'am-."

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

Melata raises her eyebrows, "Yes, it is warm and quiet, but it is also a good place for pranks. I've seen more than one sleeping boy or girl come to grief in the galleries...and in the living caverns...and at the lake."

"Pranks? How childish," is Rathin's opinion on the subject. His feet are still propped up on the railing, stifling another yawn. "Don't worry, I can take care of myself." Although the bruises on his face might indicate otherwise.

"If pranks were tolerated," Satiet interjects. With a careless look granted the pair she comes up behind, she then turns to observe the sands and the parents resting there. "As it is, the consequences for any pranks would be quite severe now." Primly poised, only a minute turn of her shoulders draws her pale eyes to take in a side-long glance of Rathin's visible cheek.

Melata eyes Satiet, "You know very well that while pranks may not be tolerated, they still occur. A sleeper and a small pot of warm water, and who is going to be the wiser?" She shakes her head, "And I'm not so sure about taking care of yourself, there, boy."

The interjecting voice is familiar enough that Rathin actually half turns in his seat to catch sight of the owner. An amused twitch of lips follows, before the scruffy-haired candidate turns back. "How severe is that? A sevenday in the infirmary severe, latrine duty for the entire candidacy severe, or packing one's bags severe?" Belatedly, as if only just remembering, he drawls out, "Ma'am." Somehow, every time he gives that salutation he manages to make it sound almost like an insult. An easy, graceful shrug is his careless response to Melata's opinion.

Satiet smiles in that overly pleasant manner of someone about to convey something unpleasant. Still, her voice is sweet. "I recall pranks in my time where the prankster didn't receive any kind of punishment, even though it involved defacing Weyr property. As coordinator, pranks would involve a report to the Weyrleaders with the recommendation to strip their knot and return them home. Now, if someone poured warm water liberally over Rathin's hands-" she winks, allowing the curve of that smile to deepen fractionally for Melata's benefit, "I would have no idea where to start searching for the perp. Like your shiners, Rathin. Mind?" But whether the two mind or not, the slight girl takes a step backwards and seats herself near the couple.

Melata sighs and shakes her head at youth, be it that of the young Candidates, or that of the older goldrider. Was she ever that young? Probably not, or if she was, Fall knocked it out of her before she was killed by Thread.

"I wouldn't ever do something so simplistic." Rathin's careless rejoinder has the ring of truth to it, as far as it goes. His fingers tap briefly at the slate resting on his lap, half turning head to catch sight of Satiet as she goes to seat herself. "As for finding a perp, it -would- be difficult. I seem to be making so many friends here, after all." The briefest of smiles flickers across his lips, widening considerably as he touches fingers briefly to his cheek, "Thanks. I was running around the lake and a rock jumped out at me. I suppose I should take care not to run in the dark, hm?"

A slender leg lifts, crossing over the other, and prissily, Satiet adjusts the flowing material of her trousers. "I never knew our rocks were so volatile." A distinct lack of talent in reading other people's minds makes it difficult for the young woman to realize Melata's thoughts and history, but a glance is spared the bluerider in any case, a brow lifting in askance at the older woman's sighing. After clearing her throat, the raven-haired rider eases out of the light jacket over her shoulders. "Maybe you'd like to report the rock, so we could make sure it wouldn't be in your way any longer, candidate?"

Melata shakes her head again and heads down to the railing to look out at the sands at the eggs. She is listening, but not overtly so.

Rathin half turns in his seat, arm resting along the back of the bench, eyes shamelessly dropping to watch Satiet's readjustment. "Hmm," is his initial response, suitably distracted that it takes him a moment to compose a reply, not to mention for his gaze to lift a bit higher in order to properly respond to the goldrider. "How -do- you punish rocks? You can only break them, and that won't do at all. You can't punish a rock for being a rock." His gaze briefly drifts towards Melata, but returns readily enough to the younger woman.

"Any more than you can't punish a scoundrel for being a scoundrel?" The return is as placid as her movements are leisurely. The jacket is folded neatly and then set onto the bench next to her, leaving Satiet's shoulders exposed with the thin straps of a camisole. Basking in the warmth of the sands, the young weyrwoman seems to be paying only the minimum of attention to this candidate and this particular conversation. "We could quarantine the rock, have L'sen guard it. It'd probably do him some good to guard rocks." She muses aloud, "C'len too, come to think of it."

Melata frowns to herself as she hears one of her wingriders mentioned.

Quietly delighted laughter is the candidate's answer to Satiet's rejoinder. "Touche, Satiet of High Reaches." His eyes drop towards the goldrider's shoulder, briefly, before he lowers feet from the railing, propping one leg up on the seat to provide a knee against which to balance his slate. Only the briefest of looks is given, just long enough to judge reaction to his words: "L'sen and C'len, hm? Let me guess, lady of the spires... -troublemakers- both?" The faintest scratches can be heard as he touches charcoal to the slate. [Rathin]

To his words there is no reaction, Satiet managing her expression with supreme control. "Why not ask them? People are so apt to tell the truth about themselves, you know." Gently leaning forward, a speckle of gold appears from the tunnel above the grounds and alights onto the ledges above. "They're getting harder, I think. I've only seen two clutches on the Sands here, and it's hard to tell sometimes. Do you think the sands might attack your face next, candidate?"

Melata says conversationally over her shoulder, "Satiet, you are not the Senior, and, thus, you are not the Weyrleader. Therefore, assignment of duties, any duties, of one of my wingriders is not your perogative. That is for me and my Wingseconds, else the Weyrleaders." She returns to watching the sands, as if she had said nothing.

"It's always a possibility," Rathin allows, glance shifting from the slate to the sands below for a moment. He seems a touch disappointed there's no reaction to his words, and seems to pause a moment before his own response: "The truth about themselves? Perhaps first I should ask you, Satiet of High Reaches. I bid you tell me." His charcoal stick is poised over his slate, awaiting the goldrider's response, though Melata's interjection earns a raise of brow, the candidate amused and intrigued at the same time.

Surprise flickers in the younger woman's eyes, dark lashes inching as high as the furrowed set of her forehead. "Who said anything about assigning the duty to him?" Innocence reflects in Satiet's pale eyes, and a tilt of her head takes in the wingleader, "Do you think if I asked L'sen nicely, he wouldn't do the favor for me outside of wing duties as a friend? And wingleader," there's distant bemusement in her suddenly chilling reply, "Did you really believe such flippant comments as a plan to go over your head in the order of things?"

Melata just sort of gives the mildest of shrugs, not bothering to turn around and face the conversing pair.

With deliberate motions, Rathin takes one edge of his shirt, and uses it to clean the slate of whatever he'd put there. Creeping smile is given, studiously resuming the motion of charcoal against slate, glance flickering from one rider to the other, as if awaiting the next bout, an unbidden chuckle coming from him as he works.

As rank happy as Satiet is, the narrowed set of her eyes that studies Melata a beat longer is all that the young woman allows in reaction for the wingleaders' reply and lack of response thereafter. Immediately, however, as she turns away, the near scowl fades out into something blander, and with a precision in her clipped alto, she picks up the threads of conversation just prior, as if there had been no interruptions. "Tell you the truth?"

"That's all I ask, Satiet of High Reaches." Rathin just as smoothly picks up the conversation, eyes finally lifting from his slate. They flicker briefly to Melata, noting her back is turned, before shifting to Satiet. With deliberate movement, and a quirk of lips, he turns the slate to face the goldrider, brows raised quizzically as if asking the goldrider's opinion.

[The drawing on the slate depicts a tall woman with short hair, the knot on her shoulder so large it's almost overbalancing the hapless woman as she stares down with hands on her hips at a little boy. A balloon beside the woman indicates her words: 'OBEY ME, DRUDGE!' The little boy, in a squeaky voice, is saying: 'Yes, ma'am!']

Melata has seen Candidates come and go, and the same for goldriders. It takes more than an ambitious goldrider to rile her up, or a full-of-himself Candidate. She continues to look out at the eggs and the Sands.

"Oh, I find you attractive, and my cruel responses to your charm is only because I'm secretly seven still and believe cooties are conveyed by boys I like." Remarkably peppy, Satiet's response is obviously meant for Rathin despite the fact that she's still studying the eggs. Not being a telepath, Melata's thoughts go uncommented on, and the woman isn't even glanced at this time as the she doesn't do anything to draw attention to her. Movement at her side, however, of Rathin's slate coming into view, does cause her to glance over, and the smile that quickly gets smothered is heard in her voice if not expressed on the curve of her lips. "Quite the artist, trader."

"My heart dies a little more at each of your sarcastic remarks, lady. Soon I will be nothing but an empty shell much, I imagine, to your delight." Rathin touches a hand to his chest, his look to Satiet beseeching. "Someday I hope you'll take pity on me and favour me with the crumbs of your kind and gentle words." The smile that the slate evokes is more than enough reward, the scruffy-haired candidate looking pleased as he turns the slate back towards himself. "Indeed. I was once courted to follow that line of work."

"Don't some trading families have an artist to do doodles of their clients? Make some spare marks on the side much to the enjoyment of those customers?" Satiet reaches out, a long finger tracing the lines over the air, as if in an attempt to memorize the drawing to recreate at a later date. His own sarcasm is unremarked upon, though she smiles vaguely, thin indulgence of the condescending kind etched into that line.

Melata appears to be done looking out over the eggs. With a mutter of "I'm getting to old for this," she turns and heads back out into the bowl towards other duties.

Melata walks down a short flight of steps and heads out through the entrance to the bowl. Melata has left.

"I don't draw for the enjoyment of others," Rathin counters easily, tone conversational. "Only my own enjoyment. I am, you forget, a selfish scoundrel." Unlike the other unfinished drawing, he doesn't immediately wipe this one clean, letting the slate sit on his lap. Satiet's motions are noted from the corner of his eye, and deliberately, he places the slate, face down, on the bench halfway between them. A peace offering, perhaps, but one that is pointedly unremarked upon. His eyes trail after the older Wingleader, lips pursed. "I'm almost positive she was talking about -you-, Satiet of High Reaches," the candidate notes, dryly.

"Sometimes," Satiet remarks aloud dryly, as she watches the wingleader's departure, "I think she's thinking disdainful thoughts of us all. But until we figure out a way to get into other people's heads- I can never be sure." Absentmindedly, the finger continues to work across the figure, tracing in the air before finding a resting place in her lap again where her hands clasp over each other calmly. "So, what's the name of the rock that bounced into your face?"

"I'm betting on dirty thoughts. No one can be that unruffled unless they've got their mind on sex." Rathin's tone is not in the slightest mocking, though he does have a grin on his face as he leans forward to eye the eggs. "I just hope it doesn't warp those poor dragons, with the way she stares at them so intently." He glances back towards Satiet, with a snort. "I don't like to name names, ma'am," he drawls out the title, "Which I'm sure should be a relief for you. Though, granted, I have made it a point in my letters to the Beowins to enquire as to the current whereabouts and mood of the Lord of Nabol... just out of interest's sake."

"I'm sure your curiosity's gotten you in trouble often, Rathin." Satiet unbends her frame, legs uncrossing, and her hands settling behind her onto the stone that reaches back to the next carved bench. "She's too old for sex, I imagine."

"Frequently," Rathin confesses. "Which reminds me, if Maja ever happens to ask, I -am- a trader." The sly curve of his lips might well be enough to convey the pointed ingenuousness of the statement. The topic of the older rider seems to be one he's happy to let go, judging by the wrinkle of nose, as if Satiet's suddenly crossed a line he doesn't want to pursue. "Feel free to keep my masterpiece," he gestures at the slate on the bench between them. "Perhaps one day it will be worth a fortune."

"You'll run out of slates at this rate, trader, if you keep giving away your masterpieces to all the girls you're trying to court." His offer goes unaccepted, though the drawing receives another flippant glance that earns it a faint smile, before Satiet turns back to the eggs. "Somehow watching them is soothing. It's mindless, and eggs and dragons are somehow less irritating than pregnant woman and their spawn. How was your infirmary duty this morning?"

Rathin's crooked smile is confession enough to Satiet's accusations. "I've plenty of slates. More than enough for all the girls I'm trying to court. I asked Garain for extra ones after I met you, Satiet of High Reaches." The eggs, for now, have less interest than his companion, light blue eyes studying the goldrider. "Numbing," is his careless answer to her query. "Though granted, easy access to numbweed was a boon, all things considered." A hand reaches briefly to touch at the curve of his cheek where the skin is darkened to purple, the faintest of winces given.

Satiet favors Rathin with a flat look that blossoms suddenly into an equally crooked expression, though her's borders closer to a smirk than anything. "Why did you accept Search, Rathin of the Beowins? It seems unlike you to subject yourself to a station in life where you're clearly at the bottom of any structure you can fathom." A slender brow lifts, arced in askance as the brilliant blue slides along the young man's rock-attacked cheek. "It doesn't even seem you're favorably thought of by your peers."

"Being on the bottom never bothered me." There's laughter in Rathin's voice as he answers. "Accepting seemed like perfect way to chase you across Pern without bordering on stalking, my lady." He shifts his position, leaning into the space that separates them, arm resting across the back of the bench. "As for this," his hand hovers over his cheek, but doesn't touch it again, "It's nothing. I've taken worse in my time. Besides, it's not the favor of my peers that I seek... Satiet." He drawls out her name, slowly and deliberately - not mocking this time - but slow, intimate.

The double entendre of his reply catches Satiet unaware, but it does say a lot for the state of her own mind that she flushes so readily. "You'd do well to learn from yesterday's lesson on respect, candidate. Whether it's an imagined slight or truly existent." Deliberately cold, and struggling to remain distant, the young weyrwoman's ice composure is visibly cracking here and there, though the slivers are minute. "Ma'am. I don't recall giving you permission to call me anything but."

"I'm afraid I'm still in the process of learning - I haven't finished my punishment, yet. Forgive my lapse." Light blue eyes catches the flush, and Rathin's suitably pleased, straightening ever so slightly as lips curve upwards. "True. However, in my defense, this is the first time you've corrected me... ma'am." His eyes are fixed on her, looking for any weakness; when he sees the slightest falter, he drives forwards without a care for the consequences, voice low: "Does your weyrmate say your name that way, too? Or do you make him call you ma'am as well?"

Satiet's eyes narrow immediately, angrily though that emotion gets quickly obscured by the descent of her pale lids, and it's only after two visible breaths have been taken that she replies with thin-veiled irritating, "My life is none of your concern, candidate." Telling enough is one clenched hand that flattens to find a resting place beneath her bottom, physically sitting on at least one hand. "Do you derive ecstasy from getting abused, trader?" Karma has a funny way of coming around a kicking deserving people in the butt.

"No, it's not, and nonetheless I find myself concerned just the same. Curious, no?" Rathin's brows are lifted in feigned vexation. Her query earns a slight tip of head, as if the erstwhile trader is awaiting some follow-up. "Somewhat," he admits after a pause, though whether his words are truth or falsehood is open to interpretation. "I'd like to meet your mysterious weyrmate, one of these days. I imagine the man has the patience of a Master Harper."

"Your concern would be better put to use making sure your face isn't permanently scarred by rocks in the future. Or worse yet, the rocks somehow build a wall to prevent you from going somewhere and breaking your legs." Satiet retreats to higher ground, or at least ground that's focused less on her personal life and more on current events. "Talented, our rocks that you can't glibly talk them out of injuring you."

"Possibly true, however my thoughts are often distracted by any pretty thing my eyes find." Rathin's still watching her, faint laughter in his voice, "Do I sense -concern- for my wellbeing, ma'am?" This time, the scruffy-haired trader doesn't seem about to let the subject slip so easily, fingers drumming a silent beat on the stone of the bench. "Has he a name, this bronzerider of yours? Or should I give you a moment to make the particulars up?"

A pause is followed by an incredulous, "You don't believe me?" Satiet darts a look at the trader, for the moment putting her lofty ideals of the line between private and public lives on hold.

"I've seen you frequently about in the time I've been here," Rathin says - admitting without saying as much he's been watching her - "But I've yet to see you on the arm of your handsome bronzerider. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone - I imagine it helps keep out the undesirables, to say that your body is already claimed." On the one hand, his tone is equal parts patronising and dismissive... but on the other, his eyes glint with concealed amusement, as if his only intention is to goad her.

Satiet's physical withdrawal is followed soon by her verbal one, but only after she gets in one last comment, coldly sharp words as betrayal of just how much this conversation has stung. "You'll do well to stay out of my way, candidate, Nabol apple or no." Her quick rise, the moment it takes to shake loose the material of her pants, and the subsequent clipped gait that leads her out, tremor with anger that has no outlet.

"I struck a nerve. I'm sorry." The apology from the candidate seems honest, but when it's following such calculated words, it probably holds less weight than it should. Rathin rises quickly from the bench, scooping up his slate, long strides seeking to catch up with the goldrider, his words chasing after her was well: "I asked for the truth earlier, Sat-- ma'am. That's all I want."

In the stairwell that leads back down to the bowl, Satiet's steps halt and quickly rounding about again, it seems she's about to intercept Rathin in his tracks. Instead, she attempts to maneuver past him, her chin lifted haughtily, her jawline clenched as words that would be spoken aren't.

The abruptness of the manoeuvre catches Rathin off guard, and he automatically reaches for Satiet's arms as she goes by, as much to steady himself as her. His grip loosens as he regains his balance, though he doesn't let go just yet. His head bends slightly, catching her eyes, repeating softly, deliberately, "I'm sorry."

Satiet flinches, though her arm is good and caught and even after Rathin's grip loosens, she doesn't pry herself away immediately. Instead, she's still, rigid when he bends, and turns even stiffer as he speaks. Turns of replacing her mocking smirk with a pleasant, if entirely false, smile are drawn upon to just allow the barest nod of acceptance. Three heartbeats pass, the time seeming to stretch out as she's completely silent until one sentence is granted the trader. Quietly, with pale eyes glittering up like emotionless chips of ice, she says, "Let go of my arm, trader."

Rathin's experience in reading expressions is enough for him to note the falsity of the smile, not to mention the acceptance of his apology. Light blue eyes narrow, as he hisses out a breath of irritation. "I see you accept your victories with as much grace as you do your defeats." His voice is taut, a hint of familiar mocking creeping in as he releases her arms. "As you command, lady of the spires." A slight bow is given, and he gestures for her to climb the stairs unimpeded, before turning to leave himself.

Satiet has no further words for him, the release of her arm enough of a victory for now. Her steps, however, don't lead her down the stairs, but back to the forlorn piece of folded cloth that is her jacket, which she gathers, and then tosses over her shoulders, where arms don't find sleeves, and the top button is only pushed through to keep the jacket on her frame. Then, if Rathin still waits for her to pass first, she steps past him towards the bowl without a look or words.

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

Satiet comes out of the entrance to the hatching grounds. Satiet has arrived.

Rathin walks past wordlessly, long strides carrying him quickly across the bowl.

In the opposite direction, a cheek-flushed Satiet steps quickly towards her weyr, the flutter of a loosely draped jacket waving in the wake of her movements.