Difference between revisions of "Logs:Veiled Contempt"

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.