Difference between revisions of "Logs:Satiet Leaves a Light On"

Mostly empty -- which is not so surprising, perhaps, given it's a hallway between two storage rooms. It's what makes it mostly empty this evening, as opposed to actually empty that might be considered interesting: a slender woman making her way through the open bookcase into the hallway, with a disconcerted expression cast backwards. Really? All this time?

From inside, where the hallway turns to an archway and the archway into a storeroom, N'thei's voice; "It's a token inspection. Stand here. Relax. Just trying to--" The two step out of the shadow between corridor and cavern about when Satiet walks in, and the big fellow stops talking exactly when his eyes land on her profile for that backward glance. The man with him, frequent guard for the traders' stores, slinks his back against the wall and looks doubly worried to be book-ended by weyrleaders. "Amazing what you never notice right under your nose, isn't it." Says the bronzerider to answer Satiet's expression.

It's N'thei's voice, projected to and addressing her, that swivels Satiet's attention back forward, the free strands of her dark hair swinging into her face. An absent hand lifts, tucking her longer bangs behind her ear and giving the hallway that lies between herself and the trader with the Weyrleader a cursory inspection. "It doesn't make sense that something like this could exist here for so long without-." An abrupt ending to her thought pins pale eyes on the guard. "Making friends?" Cool, however light she aims to make her voice.

N'thei tricks a sideways look to the guard, a man trying hard to bolster the courage to smile at Satiet, to pretend he hasn't heard she's the frostiest bitch on Pern; not working very well for him. After the pause goes on long enough to stray into uncomfortable territory, N'thei answers for him. "Absolutely, best of friends even. --Your timing is perfect, madam, as Lystros here was just about to suffer an inspection of goods. I could use a second pair of unbiased eyes." He stays at the far end of the hall to extend the offer of a hand toward Satiet. To his left, Lystros gulps.

While others might be discomforted by the length of silence, Satiet makes good use of it by inspecting the guard in a more scrutinizing fashion than the hallway received. "Lystros," comes a beat later with what might pass as a cordial nod from the frostiest bitch on Pern, but for anyone else might be just passable as curt. The 'madam' garners a lift of her brows, lips pressing down thin. "My pleasure." The most minute smile emerges, twitching faintly at her lip corner. "Sir." The distance between the two parties is gaped, Satiet's slim hand dropping lightly into N'thei's, then initiating the next step past the Weyrleader towards the room.

Gait changed only for a moment, N'thei presses his empty palm flat to the guard's chest while he passes, helps ease Lystros's shoulders back against the stone with a cold-comfort smile; "You wait here." Where he can sort-of see into the cavern, much of it. Then back in step with Satiet, his fingers easing around her hand. "L'vae believes the Vijays stole a shipment of ale from his cousin. A thorough search should set his mind at ease." Lowered voice, smile touching the edge of his mouth, nowhere near as perfect as Satiet's smirk but coldly amused in its own way. "Your impartiality will go a long way."

Satiet favors Lystros with a passing glance, the blue lingering half a second longer than necessary as she steps further into the room, the only acknowledgement of N'thei's low comment a chin turn with lifted brows at the other man.

Traders' Storeroom, High Reaches Weyr All organized, arranged, and categorized. What was once a musty room in the back-of-nowhere has been transformed into the image of orderliness. Although a musty smell clings to this large cave, it's now overlaid with the scent of scrubbed walls and new paint. Glowbaskets dangle from hooks in the ceiling to shed more-than-adequate light on the surroundings, illuminating the shelves that have been dusted and now bear loads of "useful" burdens. Perpetually under guard by at least one watchful pair of trader's eyes, the Vijays' stores line the wooden shelves. Bolts of fabric, earthen jars of who-knows-what, vials of perfumes, jewelry boxes, the list goes on and on. Quite a wealth of merchandise can be found herein, all kept track of in a large ledger book that slots into a pedestal at the far end of the room. Tapestries cover cave-like bulges in the wall, also for sale, and there's a slight breeze wafting through the otherwise enclosed room.

Once in the room and down a short distance away from the entrance, the lifted brow turns into words, as low as his originally to make eavesdropping by the scaredy-pants guard all the harder. "/My/ impartiality?" The thin groomed brow lifts higher and Satiet purses her lips to one side, considering N'thei. "And which way should my impartiality fall, my lord?"

N'thei leads on a few steps farther, brings Satiet to nearly the middle of the room before he unclasps his hand and takes a short step back, now to see the room from just over her shoulder. "Near to the truth, difficult as it may be for you. I'll survey the room, you need only supply that you saw no crates of ale likely to belong to L'vae's poor cousin." It's only once he starts away, toward a shelf all lined with colored glass bottles, that levity creeps into his voice, that he casts a grin and flickered eyebrows back at her; "Careful, love. I could get to like the sound of my-lord on your lips."

Unclasped, the slim hand draws back, snatched away and curling reflexively into itself, fingers held in a loose fist. Then it falls to her side, uncurling to rest a hand at her hip. "And that," Satiet's cool voice presumes, with a slant of sarcasm that carries her disbelief in what she actually states, "Is the truth?" Tellingly, the weyrwoman turns to those colored glass bottles, following slowly after the Weyrleader and ignoring his amusement, both grin and comment. "L'vae's poor cousin if it is indeed."

N'thei repeats with conscientious certainty, "/Near/ to the truth. I am in the room. I am inspecting its contents." He uncorks a bottle, swishing it to disturb the liquid inside, then lifts it to smell. "Do you see any likely-looking crates?" Since she's come after him, he offers a smell of the perfumed bottle toward Satiet, his expression undecided about the scent. "L'vae's poor cousin should keep a better eye on his goods, then he wouldn't have this problem, and we wouldn't be going through the motions." Heartlessly resigned. All the smoke-and-mirrors with perfume and banter exist just to detract from the blind eye he's turned to the /actual/ crates just visible under a tarp behind the two of them.

Intent on N'thei and the bottle of perfume whose scent reaches her even before she drops her nose to sniff, Satiet recoils. "Poor him? Poor us," she corrects. In her reflexive movement backwards, a heel catches on the tarp, shook free irritably and dismissed with a glance down and boot nudge. Flatly, "You're being too nice. Happy lately are you?" Satiet, the only person in the world who'd accuse anyone of being overly nice, smiling too much, or talking too much.

"Mm." If there's an answer in there to N'thei's level of happiness, good luck finding it. His preoccupation precludes response, with his hand reached toward Satiet's upper arm as though he would draw her away from missed steps and tarp disturbances, but she settles it herself. So he returns the bottle to the shelf, re-corked, and wanders down a few rows to pretend interest in carved fans and silk handkerchiefs. "Poor us?"

There's a moment of faintly held tension when N'thei reaches out for her arm that relaxes seconds after he draws away. Where her Weyrleader preoccupies himself with delicate, luxury goods, Satiet begins to make her own inspection of the bottled goods. "Poor us. Shouldn't L'vae be doing this? I doubt the stench of that perfume you opened will get out of my hair with one washing let alone two." Disdainful, the word muffled as she strains up to push bottles around on a higher shelf, "Cheap."

A finger grazed across the top of a fan's scalloped edges, N'thei drags out a slow smile that aims at all these ill-gotten goods. "Rather do it myself, want something done right, as they say." Tap tap, fingernails on wooden spines before he puts the fan back on the rack, bounces his finger along the shelf while he returns to Satiet's side, there to loom while she browses, easily seeing where she strains. "Cheap, yes. Harlot-y. Doesn't suit you. Are you afraid of me."

"No." The answer, so quick, so blithe to a query that lacks question, says more in its alacrity than in the even way it comes forth. A shallow breath, then slower, with pale eyes lifted to seek out N'thei and his fans and instead finds N'thei, looming. "No." Satiet's chin lifts and her head tilts, blue eyes forcibly attaching themselves to his gray. "Would you rather these bottles, this shipment of L'vae's cousin's, not be found?" Business-based words are accompanied by a slim hand that rests just a breadth away from N'thei's chest.

If N'thei could will someone to touch him, could bring that hand the rest of the way just by dropping his eyes from Satiet's down to her fingers instead, he would; intent but meticulously steady enough that he never leans nearer. "Would rather us find it than L'vae. Preferably no one finds it, not here." Business business business, always waiting in the wings. "The boy's indignant, and righteousness is never good for business." His frown cues his eyes to lift to hers again, signals a minute shrug. "They won't steal from us again, but I can't tell them what to do outside the Weyr, can I."

The hand, so steadily held, curves in at the finger tips to just graze, then nudge as all but one finger drops to be clasped. "Then," Satiet decides, that singular finger moving across the seams of N'thei's tunic, and turning to hook just the end of his collar, "We've looked and they were not found." The heel of her boots brushes deliberately against the tarp once more, covered crates in a room otherwise neatly organized and stored. The indignation of one man versus the financial prosperity of many. Such decisions. Her hooked finger and hand retracts. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No." Quick as hers but not as blithe, N'thei means it though there's none of the usual decision behind his voice. Fast as the word comes, he chases her hand with his, not to break her wrist this time but to secure her fingers, to advance a step on her-- the ostensible purpose would be to move Satiet away, where her heels won't do so much dangerous tarp-scraping. "Much as I know your love of power would have me say yes, I'm not afraid of you." /You./ "Disappointed?" He tries to put the amused smile in his eyes, but it's not settling there, not chasing away the simple, frank, hopefulness there.

Her slim frame tenses, the fingers caught by his tightening with effort not to instinctively pull back. But delayed instinct couples with forgetfulness of the trader guard's vicinity about the entrance (easier, no doubt with her back to him), and his step forward is met by her own, a tiny thing that nonetheless brings her close to lean briefly into N'thei's torso. Just a moment. A moment's breath to press her lips into his tunic, take in his scent, and close her eyes. Disappointed? "Of other things," says the glossy, dark-haired woman, the reminder of that disappointment finally compelling her to move away. "Shall I tell Avalanche's wingsecond?"

His empty hand, the one not still clasped around her fingers, has that same moment to find glossy curls under his fingers, a fingertip to just touch the fine sharpness near her chin-- and then she pulls away, and N'thei smears his hand across his mouth in gesture just shy of torment. He watches her keenly, drops her hand without resistance, eyes all swept up with her when she moves from him, no drinks and no Satiet and just his teeth filing hard across his lip for a long space of time until it stretches into the spectre of a smile. "Please." Tell him. Presumably.

Stepped back, eyes closed, the pale eyes unlid slowly, and for a moment, Satiet catches the motion just shy of torment that swipes a hand across his face. Her once held fingers curl into a tightly-held fist, knuckles whitening as she collects her cold, cool composure around her protectively again. She just falls short and the regret of her brilliant, lovely eyes flares keenly. Quiet words, "I will." Back-stepped to leave, unthinking actions stemming from the lack of complete control cause quick, light-footed steps forward so she can tiptoe up to brush her lips against N'thei's cheek and those delicate fingers to curve about N'thei's neck. And even lower, filled with all her disappointments of months past, "Go find your harlot."

Say you're sorry. Say you're sorry. Say you're sorry already, man. It's not that hard. "Just as soon as you're gone." The tatters of N'thei's dignity forbid more than that. And, while he covers Satiet's hand on his neck with his own, while his fingers slip with familiar ease along the curve of her waist, while slate gray eyes will do their best to convey a why-don't-you-stay offer, still comes down to the same problem: they're both just too fucked up toward each other. His fleeting, shrugged smile acknowledges that much.

While he acknowledges it, she might cry at his words. Might, in the sudden swallow and damp seeming eyes, but doesn't, and in the lack of any kind of suitable expression or mask for this kind of occasion, Satiet smiles. A thin, awkward look that struggles to find cold to arm herself with. While her body betrays her, arcing into the invitation of his gray eyes, her hand pries free and soon after, her waist must follow the foot that steps back. "Enjoy yourself," is all she says, pivoting to leave first. She has to leave first this time.

"If I were to come to you." N'thei lets her go, yes, in every physical sense, but how many times are they expected to watch each other walk away without eventually doing something, saying something? "Your weyr. Your bed. No lying, no hard words." It's the poker-face that watches Satiet leaving, a blank slate expression, either a good bluff or a hand he trusts.

Back turned to N'thei, Satiet's forced, even pace halts and she's still. Is she crying? It's hard to tell with her voice so low. "Then what would you have left to love?" That this is his poker-face, that there's blankness on his face - it's a tactic lost on the tensely held woman.

Maybe he's just realized it, that's what his tone implies though N'thei's expression remains unchanged, guarded most over revelation. "What illusions do you think I have left? I've seen you. With your children, your friends, if that's what they are. I've known your outrage and your concern, your stupid pride." He ambles through words, searching for something, some-- "You still think I love the idea of you, the fantasy. Satiet, I have not done this to myself over a damn daydream of you."

Through her silent tears is where she finds the discomforted fidgeting of the trader guard who is trying to look anywhere else but at the drama in the storerooms. A hand lifts, brushing at her face and turning away so Lystros of all people isn't getting a front row seat to the crumpling of Satiet's pride. While all the dampness isn't completely wiped away, when she turns, her lifted chin and uncertain eyes flick to find N'thei and drop immediately to look straight ahead, wherever that might be. She could say so much. So very much. But there's Lystros, and maybe there's too much to say. So, instead, she says, "I'm so tired."

Later, when it's all rehashed and N'thei remembers he's a man again, he can joke with Lystros that at least it kept them from looking under that tarp, neh? Right now, he remembers the guard with a baleful glance. Satiet's words recall his attention, his eyes roaming hurriedly across the tell-tale glisten around her eyes and cheeks, his two fingers tapping silently on the shelf next to him while he waits a spell-- nothing else to say? "Then go to bed." Just, "Leave a light on."

She should've asked what he's done to himself, instead of falling apart. She could've said something more meaningful, or true to form to regain any fragment of her crushed pride. From staring straight ahead, her gaze drops to those crates, then lifts, sharp chin and all, to look to N'thei. In her gaze is an acquiescence acted on by her closing her eyes, sinking her shoulders back, and turning to move past Lystros with a high held chin and delicately held porcelain features. In seconds, she'll make it down the dark hallway and through the bookcase. In minutes, she'll have locked the records room from the inside and sat just long enough to regain something of herself before leaving. Afterwards, she'll poke listlessly at her privately taken dinner and drown her tragedies in liquor. Later, the lights of two half-shuttered glow lanterns will flicker from around and beneath the tapestry that hangs over her weyr entrance.

Should anyone point out that she told him to go find his harlot? Because that's really the punch line, not the determined pacing, not the hard staring at the lights, not the eventually squared shoulders that march right in to that dimly lit weyr, sure as hell not the fact that it's taken /five turns/ to get to this point. That's not funny; that's just sad.