Difference between revisions of "Logs:Leova's Turnday"

Day seventeen of the thirteenth month. Just after graduation. Just before an untimely, resolute death. Between these two occasions is Leova's birthday and to mark it, Satiet waits not on the bowl rim to overlook the Weyr, nor at the Starstones. Today's invitation comes after a few months of absence, where the Weyrwoman makes excuses and apologies and that 'later' becomes even more distant. Until today. Today, Satiet waits on the beaches of Tillek, the winter wind brisk, seated without Teonath near by on the dock with her legs dangling towards the water. Fur lines her coat at collar and hems, looking nominally warm despite her bare feet. It's through her absent dragon that this change of venue is mentioned and Leova's presence requested.

In time, dark-sparred wings cut through high gray clouds, Vrianth's descent purposeful if unhurried. But it's a short time, short enough that she couldn't have flown straight from their 'Reaches, that she must have betweened into blue skies and the glow of the rising sun that, down below, can only flicker here and there through those clouds. And descended anyway. Now she lands upon that beach, close to where the dock juts man-made away from the shifting sand and gravel and bits of shell, and afterward watches her rider in her leathers pace along the planks. Watches her slow as she nears Teonath's rider, and indeed some part of the green's attention is for Teonath herself, wherever her dam may be.

Wherever Teonath might be, she's nominally unavailable, though a flicker of golden light extends for the briefest moment to ensconse and welcome Vrianth before withdrawing into a foggy, impenetrable haze. Along the horizon, where the sun's just beginning to rise, the dewdrop gold figure might be seen veering in and out of clouds, though mostly in the clouds. Out of sight, though not out of mind for Satiet's occasional glance brings pale eyes across dark water to seek out those glimpses. By the bundled woman's thin hip are two thermoses and a hunk of crusty bread and while she might not look towards Leova's arrival, a low-spoken, but carefully pitched greeting blows back with the wind: "Happy turnday."

It's a haze that Vrianth respects, though she must see, or have seen, Teonath in flight. As it is, her wingtips flick to her sides but she prowls along the shore rather than taking wing, investigating tidepools or just the odd hank of seaweed, or perhaps a scattering of fishbones. "Thank you," and it's only then that her rider eases carefully to sit in a creak of leather and wood, keeping her own boots on. "Good to see you again." Beyond, then, the glimpses in the lower caverns here and there. And Leova does look at Satiet, quite nearly straightforward, only a little sidelong.

Dark curls, lengthened now to past her shoulder are shaken away, her sharp chin lifting to tilt her head back to observe the grey sky. A smile, slow to emerge, steals across her features, crinkling the wrinkles about her tired eyes and throwing into sharper relief the thin pull of skin about her high cheekbones. "We have a dock like this at home. I used to sit out on it to watch the boats come in." Satiet's head drops, slow again, her expression canting to observe Leova and then beyond the rider to the olivine green. "I've been busy. There's no present this year, I'm afraid." In lifted brows, 'you understand, yes?' But there's breakfast, and while looking to Leova, the slight woman animates, moving to pour out four mugs: two of a beef barley soup, the other two of some spiced mulled wine.

As Satiet's expression is revealed, Leova looks the more intently, all eyes beneath shaggy hair that at least isn't quite as bristly as it had been, her mouth so slightly drawn. And then as the woman regards her green, her own gaze slips towards the distant queen, still out to sea. "We were inland." And, letting a hint of a smile lurk, "The gloves still fit." Though she's not wearing them now, nor a more workaday set, the fingertips peeking out of her jacket's pulled-down sleeves quite bare. The sound of pouring gets her turning back, attentive, searching for where she might help. Then, out of nowhere, "You take your daughters? To the dock."

A beat passes, time to reflect on what should be a simple answer or merely a pause to allow Satiet better grasp of the mug of mulled wine. It ends up rested on the tops of her knees as her legs lift and her heels brace against the wood. A sip later brings the goldrider's quiet, "No," that then is followed by a smile hinted only in the infused levity of her next shared comments, "But their grandfather does. Their uncles do. Docks, the ships." For all the control of her tones, of her expression, of that careful hunch of her shoulders that initially aims to just keep the cold at bay, there's a pause there, there at the end of her words, a hitch that catches in her throat and is quickly swallowed away. With her chin lifting once more, to spare grey skies her pale, ice eyes, she ventures, "Most people don't like days like this, but sometimes, the melancholy is just right. Don't you think?"

"Family." Leova's gaze has dropped as she stretches her fingers out of her sleeves, as she warms them on the mug of soup, holding it close to her mouth before she takes so much as a sip. But not for long: something about that pause has dark lashes lifting. Her fingers lace above the mug's mouth, holding it between the heels of her hands as she considers. "Sometimes it... fits," the greenrider agrees in the end. "Especially when we have the choice, to come in out of the cold."

"Sometimes," begins Satiet, the one word lingering in the wind just a breath too long to just be reflection, "You have no choice but to remain in the cold." Rather than sipping this time, those pale eyes drop from the sky to peer into the swirls of her mug; deep red with speckles of cinnamon floating about. Her breathing, controlled and even for the most part, in spite of the cold, quickens very slightly leading into her words, "Do you know that I love him?"

Those lashes flicker at that, and Leova does sip but with care, so careful not to slurp. So careful not to so much as breathe wrongly, if she can, for all that she can't know what this right or wrong might be. A bit of breeze breathes by, ruffles her hair. She blinks it away. And then the question. It has her murmuring after a moment, after a rock cracks against rock back where Vrianth prowls, "I did wonder."

"I don't know if I've ever said it aloud." Rather than embarrassed for her confession, Satiet's head tilts to one side, as if considering her words from a neutral distance. "I thought you'd appreciate knowing. It's a fickle thing, emotions. Love. Feelings. Would be easier if they didn't exist." A sidelong smile flashes, brief only after Leova might catch it. "I daresay most presume their Weyrwoman to lack emotions. How are you? Leova?"

"I do," Leova has to admit, and she's got a wry nod to how much easier it would be. A nod that leads to her ducking her head and drinking again, quickly, careless of its heat. She swallows, looks up only shallowly. "Reckon he doesn't. Presume. That, anyway." And, "Me, I'm... getting by. Settling, I suppose. How things are."

"How things are." Statement, not a question, and as such, Satiet's repetition pairs with a quick look, sidelong once more, that studies the greenrider. Blue eyes, arced over by thin lips, sit luminous in the slender woman's even thinner face. Silently, she watches Leova, allowing that gaze to drift over Vrianth and the cracking rocks in the green's vicinity, then return to the dragon's rider. Beyond the horizon's line, somewhere between the streaks of sunlight, soars a gold. "Reckon- we're not meant for happily ever afters. How things are." The hunched frame stirs, shoulders rolling back, the fur trim of her collar sinking as her shoulders fall and those slight legs fall once more so her toes might skim the surface if an incoming tide. "Oh, Leova." But what she might say goes unsaid, and her parted lips instead inhale the cold winter air.

The broth's still warm, contained in its mug and in the curve of Leova's cold hands, but the greenrider would drink it even if it weren't. Drink it down, to warm her insides, the way another might drink wine or worse. Or more. "But happy-for-a-whiles. Would hope people could make that, at least. Sometimes." And then, and then, the waves slapping softly against the wooden piles beneath them, "What is it? Satiet."

"Nothing." And for now, the slight woman seems content to sit there on that dock in silence, with her leg dangling, feet bare to the wind and water. The mug of mulled wine she holds is more or less untouched, and her head sinks down into the protection of the fur about her neck.

The greenrider regards her a while longer, as the wind toys with the fur in place of that terribly-thin neck. In time, she experiments with saying, "Different, having him as my wingleader. But we get by."

Her lips part, not to breathe, but to speak, and while words will eventually emerge, there is nothing for those initial moments. The silence is paced by catches of breath that might be signal a start, that sounds suspiciously like the beginnings of the word 'he', but fail to materialize further from that first, possible syllable. "It's getting colder and I've left the Weyr in Tiriana's," pause, "Capable hands too long this morning. I wonder if we'll have any kitchen staff left before I return."

This time, Leova doesn't ask. What she does do is leave a pause, longer than necessary. Her eyes dip from Satiet herself to the mugs whose contents go undrunk, though her head doesn't move until she moves to drain her own soup. Then, quietly, "Funny: sun's about risen, and still it's getting colder. Guess we've got to have surprises... maybe if they go and run off, Lujayn can run faster. Head them off at the pass, hm?"

Lujayn. This gives Satiet a moment's more pause, ice eyes framed by dark lashes turning to Leova, measuring the greenrider up. Then, wordless resignation punctuated by a slim shoulder rising. "Watch out for Tiriana for me, will you?" With those words, Satiet gets to her feet, turned to the ocean where Teonath flies above. Perhaps she beckons and is ignored, or she never asked in the first place, but with her arms tucked about her abdomen, Reaches' senior queenrider looks out towards the ocean sky.

Being assessed is one thing: she's used to that. But the rest... Leova's mouth opens, closes, briefly much like one of those fish that's gutted hereabouts, and Vrianth's own narrow muzzle lifts. Watch out for what Tiriana does, or watch out on her behalf... She sits where she is, though her eyes track the other woman. She doesn't stand. "If there's ever anything else." Quietly, so quietly. "You have only to ask."

A slight frame so stiffly held, so distant even from the sole person nearby, remains stalwart against the winter wind. The cloud-escaping rays of light cast color to her pale face and bring a glint to her eyes; all difficult to see with her back turned to the greenrider. But still. "Could you leave me?" In such a hurry to leave just seconds ago, begging the excuse of Tiriana's wrecking havoc of the Weyr, now she stalls. "And take the food?" Over her shoulder, a glance casts to the seated Leova and the slightest smile that fails to meet her eyes emerges. If meant to be a smile of reassurance or thanks, it falls miles short. "I'd like to be alone for a moment longer here."

And so Leova stands, not particularly gracefully, up onto one knee before levering herself up the rest of the way. But then, she has three mugs to tend to, only one empty, two thermoses and that hunk of bread, not to mention the big question: what to do with the leavings. Drink them down, with a toast? Toss a libation out into the sea? She takes the middle road, pours each back into its rightful thermos, untouched as it has been. It only spills a little. She has a cloth, she can rub her hands for now and then wash them later, back in the noise and the sounds and the warmth, away from this quiet place. So she does, not slowly, gathering up even the bread and wiping just the few crumbs off into the water. "I have it," she says. "Take your time." And she bypasses Satiet, steady on the planks, though at the end she can't help but look back and see.

From behind, there's nothing much to see, but that glossy hair tipped backwards with Satiet continuing to look to the sky. Presumably. There's Teonath who's descended from the clouds to stretch her wide sails as a golden, showy counterpart to the grey before rising up and disappearing into them again. Both separate, solitary figures.

The greenrider's lips move, soundlessly, or as nearly so as makes no difference to anyone but the wind. Or perhaps Vrianth, who meets her when she continues on, and puts up with the padding of the thermoses and the mugs so they won't clink or crack. And then the pair is airborne, linking one to the other: from Satiet's dock to Teonath's sky, past the clouds to disappear into the sun.