Difference between revisions of "Logs:Of Impatience"

Your location's current time: 14:59 on day 28, month 3, Turn 60, of the Tenth Pass. It is a spring afternoon.

You go up the stairs to Teonath's ledge. Teonath's Ledge This broad ledge has been smoothed down by turns of use and inclement weather. Half of it protrudes out from the wall, an arc of stone quarry glinting with rose quartz chips underneath, while the other half is covered by a high ceiling, large enough to shelter a dragon or two. There are two distinct depressions made by a large gold turns before, and a slightly smaller one not far off. Talon divots mark the very edge of the ledge.

The ledge provides a view of the bowl and the activities below and due to its location, the middle of the queen's ledges, it's about a dragon length and a half from the ground. It faces the north and is positioned slightly to the west wall allowing it to get a large portion of the rose dusted sunrise in the mornings. Off the side, the rolling arc of ground that leads down towards a barely visible line of the crystalline blue lake provides relief to the bustle of the bowl.

Stairs lead off to the side, carved into the wall and descending to the ground. Contents: Teonath(#223JOQaep) Obvious exits: Inner Weyr Bowl

It's a warm spring afternoon, and R'hin's taken advantage of the weather, shedding his heavy flying jacket in favor of loose linen shirt. He's carrying a chilled bottle of white wine in the crook of his arm, striding up the ramp as if he's been invited... or as if he feels at home. He does pause, however, and offer a respectful tip of head to Teonath, pale eyes on the gold with a curve of lips. "Good afternoon, Teonath," he murmurs in a low voice.

Still, the young Reachian queen lifts one set of eyelids barely to observe R'hin's advance. Perhaps he was invited, is expected, or the gold simply doesn't care, but after the indolent study behind narrowed eyes, Teonath relaxes her muscles, melting them into the sun-warmed stone as she resumes the semblance of slumber.

Once Teonath resumes her languid pose, R'hin, with a little curve of lips, moves past the gold and into the weyr, steps soft as he heads inside.

You wander into the inner weyr. Satiet and Teonath's Weyr The weyr is average sized for a queen's weyr, but still larger than the living quarters of most people. It consists of three smaller alcoves that extend out from the main entryway, each area delineated by outer layers of filmy curtains and a middle sheath of heavy woolen fabric. The general decorations are simplistic, and the color coordination delicately feminine.

The entrance from the ledge leads into a small circular room large enough to hold six people comfortably, perhaps a few more. Sparsely decorated, a large stone table seems to be a fixture there, immovable through the turns with two cushioned wooden chairs of the most simplistic design around it. A hearth is situated against a wall, a smoke tunnel leading up and out somewhere into the bowl, and near this hearth is a large depression made from a dragon curling up, strewn with soft, mint-sweetened rushes. Pressed against the wall nearby is a single fold out cot, that for the moment is compacted and covered with a pale sunset yellow sheet. ('places' and '+view')

In the main entry: R'hin and Satiet Obvious exits: Ledge

Beyond the pinned open tapestry that drapes diagonally across the entranceway lies a large stone table with the slight weyrwoman seated behind it. With one leg lifted languidly, bent and propped up on a second chair, an elbow is slung lazily around it with her chin nestled in the elbow crook. Before Satiet, stacks of neat hides of varying heights rest, a slimmer sheaf of what appears to be 'current projects' at the table's edge, and while her pale eyes rove over the hides, there's a laziness reflected in them, a lack of focus that draws her attention away to the various knicknacks of her weyr intermittently.

R'hin ducks past the tapestry, then pauses in the entranceway, leaning a shoulder against the stone. Pale eyes rove across the room and settle on the weyrwoman with a curl of lips, possessive in the way he takes her languid posture in. "Does the lady welcome a distraction, I wonder?" he murmurs in low-voiced amusement, pushing away from the wall's edge and moving towards the table, invitation accepted or not.

A crisp breeze follows R'hin into the warm weyr, and unbidden a small smile floats to grace Satiet's face, glimpsed only briefly as her chin lifts from the elbow and her eyes rise to meet that of the Weyrleader's before the sight of him seems to scare off that little delight away. Cordial, she merely nods and lifts her free arm to wave at any of the various seats that surround her table, and slowly, readjusts her position to be less relaxed and more formal: her foot falls from the chair, her back straightens, and a hand rakes through her hair to smooth out the curls. "A distraction," she finally voices dryly, "Is always welcome when it comes with a bottle attached to its arm."

Instead of immediately taking a seat, R'hin moves around the table, behind where Satiet's seated, hand brushing along the back of her chair. His voice is low as he leans in to murmur, "Mm. And is that what I am? Distracting?" He leans past her to place the bottle on an empty portion of the table, before heading for the sideboard, securing two clean glasses with an ease of one who feels familiar in this space. "I'd not thought you were so easily... satisfied, weyrwoman, with but a simple bottle of wine to garner your good regard?"

The goldrider is perfectly still when the hand runs behind her, and when his face leans tantalizing close. The stillness is soon marred by a slow inhalation that draws in what lingering scent R'hin leaves after he's moved to gather two glasses and slightly closed eyes that flutter open as again, that smile returns unbidden. It's unheard in her voice, however, the cool frost that overlays her tempered alto rising in a dry response, "Or perhaps it is the company offered." Over her shoulder, glossy hair tossed lightly, her chin passes so the pale brilliance of her eyes fixes onto the Weyrleader. "You're late," adds she.

"Perhaps," R'hin echoes in precise tones, drawing out her dry response with one of his own, though the upward curve of lips suggests lingering amusement. He sets the glasses on the table, eyes straying over her various projects as he reaches for the bottle and opens it. "Late," he agrees, "But I brought a consolation prize in the hopes your anger would not be too great, lady of the spires," he replies, unconcerned, pouring a generous measure of the chilled wine into each of the glasses. "I think I require an assistant to schedule my meetings, so that they might shoo out errant Wingleaders when more... pressing matters require my attention." Pale eyes drift towards Satiet at that last, lifting up one of the glasses and offering it to her.

"Pressing." Satiet watches, fascination glittering in her eyes, at each of R'hin's movements, and in her watchfulness, her smile curves deeper. "You sure know how to flatter a woman, sir." From him to her hides, her gaze strays and as if recalling her purpose this afternoon begins to tidy her already neat hides again, rearranging the various stacks. "Recommendations for weyr children to crafts, requisition requests for the new weyrling weyrs." As if he were really interested and then with a flippant hand she waves off the work: "Unimportant in light of," equal flattery lights her face slyly, "More pressing attention at hand."

An indulgent chuckle answers the comment, R'hin's tone dry: "Flattery has nothing to do with it, my lady. It is simple truth," he remarks, gaze drifting over the various hides, tipping his head in brief interest at the mention of the weyrlings. He selects the other glass, bringing both close to Satiet, selecting the seat nearest hers. "Ah, now who is the flatterer, dear Satiet?" He draws out her name in that familiar, intimate way of his, pale eyes glittering. Casual, he shifts the topic to something that is, at first, blandly uninteresting gossip: "I saw Shalyn leaving the weyrwoman's weyr the other night. I wonder if her child reminded our Weyrwoman how little she gets to see her own child, with all the work that she's required to do? I did secretly confess some concerns in that regard, to our... immature greenrider."

"Shalyn." Though the repetition of the name is enough to convey the disparagement the raven-haired woman has of this particular greenrider, Satiet presses forward with distasteful remarks in regards to Shalyn. "If there was ever a rider who lived up to every stereotype of her gender and dragon color, I confess I'd wondered if Oenoneth was dropped on her head a few times as an egg given her selection of a rider." It's this diatribe that allows her to deliberately ignore R'hin's approach and careful selection of seat and what smug pleasure was in her face smooths out into placid calm. As she reaches for her glass, her sharp chin tips so she can catch a sidelong glimpse of the bronzerider. "Nabrimeth grows daily," is her off-handed observation.

"Whatever else her... faults," R'hin's faint emphasis makes it clear he believes there are many, "She is blithely oblivious to even the most obvious manipulations. She could prove useful, in her own way." He tips his glass towards Satiet, then takes an appreciative sip, studying the goldrider over the rim. A curl of lips and a low chuckle is evidenced at the off-hand comment. "Better that Lhiannonth had not clutched a gold. But, she will not mature for Turns yet. You have time... Weyrwoman."

Observation voiced, Satiet finally reaches for her glass, glancing at the way the pale golden liquid moves with each jostle. "I grow tired of waiting, R'hin. Patiently, some might say. Quietly too. And Nabrimeth needs only three turns to mature, perhaps less. It's never clear cut when a gold will first rise. She might not put duty after the overly subtle hints of the needs of her family." Warning darkens the silken inflection, her blue eyes glittering coolly before she finally takes a small sip of the white. "It's good," she pronounces, studying the swish of the liquid again before the facade cracks with a small smirk, crookedly hooking upwards towards squinted eyes.

R'hin's finger trails along the rim of his glass as he studies Satiet with sudden interest. "And yet you waited many Turns before -I- came along. Why the sudden impatience, lady of the spires? Josilina has many Turns ahead of her yet." A curl of lips as his gaze lifts towards the ceiling contemplatively. "Or is it the thought of me as Weyrleader by her side, rather than yours, that twists your... thoughts, so?" Her approval of the wine is met with a knowing nod, and then a slight chuckle. "Tavrie is a lovely girl. But, she is not a -Weyrwoman-. And she is not what the Weyr -needs-."

Unappeased by R'hin's words and unruffled by his taunts, Satiet just lifts a brow high over the rim of her glass as she brings the liquid to about eye-level. As she brings it down, the displeasure of her expression finds itself set in thin lips. The glass is set to the table with a slight clink, and the freed hand snakes out to caress the side of the Weyrleader's face as much possession beneath her fingers as his voice does with her name, slipping fingers to press lightly into his chin. "The thought of you as Weyrleader to any other woman other than me twists my heart." The words, dropped as easily as dew from grass, are silken and segue into a completely different topic with ease: "What vintage?"

As she reaches out, R'hin, too, lifts his hand, roughened fingers trailing along her extended arm, pale eyes fixed on hers. "I'm sure it does," he replies in bland tone, disbelief in the answer. He doesn't immediately answer her latter question, obvious topic change that it is, but reaches languidly for his glass as hand drops away from her arm, swirling the chilled liquid. "It's Jokbel's three-Turn old. I've found there are many advantages to this," eyes trail towards the intricate knot on his shoulder, "That ought to be fully enjoyed. How long," one comment follows the other without pause or segue, "Since Teonath last rose?"

"Found your silver lining then that allows you to resign yourself to your fate then, sir?" Arch, that title, Satiet draws her fingers away from R'hin's chin long enough to press them to her lips and then back again in a light imprint. But it's the burgeoning smile, that coyly sweet, caring smile that contains any real emotion, rather than the relayed kiss. "It's been months since I've enjoyed the warmth of Ista's beaches," idly said, the goldrider tilts her head back to the hides, and retrieves her own glass, held by the stem between two fingers and pretends ignorance of his last question.

"There is one more... silver lining, that I seek," is R'hin's response, the intent, possessive way his eyes focus on Satiet making it very clear what that is. "But I, am patient," he adds, with a low-voiced chuckle, no doubt in answer to her comment of Ista. "That island has little of value, in or around it. The hidebound offer little of interest to me." The dismissive tone is accompanied by careless shrug of shoulders.

"It's been months since I've had the pleasure of Ista's company, hidebound or not," Satiet returns, quieter, near absent-minded - an inflection that is surely feigned rather than genuine in its hide-related distraction. Another series of sips, each one a fraction longer than the last leaves only half of the wine left in her glass, and with a pivot of her shoulders, she brings it before R'hin, expectant. "I hope you weren't planning on saving this bottle for later. We've much to talk of, Weyrleader, including two of the Impressions we've been left with." As if B'yan and Tavrie were now an onus on their shoulders, a burden and responsibility rather than assets.

"The.. pleasure?" R'hin echoes, somewhat dryly. "You're welcome to it. I've no great desire to travel there, nor does Leiventh." His smile deepens at Satiet's comment of the wine, leaning forward to select the bottle, refilling first hers, then his own. "I was saving it for one person alone," is his blithe response, no less honest for all that. The bottle is once more set aside, the mention of the weyrlings earning another furrow of his brow, expression darkening somewhat. "Mm. M'wen has said Tavrie has changed, since her Impression." There's a faintly querying note, and an expectant look at Satiet. "As for B'yan," he's almost dismissive, "We cannot choose who we Impress. Though there is--" he breaks off, shakes his head firmly, murmuring, "--Another time."

Satiet says "Oh, for Faranth's sake." For half a moment, it seems Satiet might throw the contents of the refilled glass into R'hin's face, but rethinks it in the next half second: wine is far more precious than making a point which she declines to elaborate on after her exclamation. "I've heard men could be dense, but you sometimes, for all your keen insight, take the cake." Instead of throwing that wine, she indulges in drinking it. Viciously. "Another time? You expect to decide who Impresses?"

R'hin looks honestly surprised at puzzled, particularly at whatever Satiet reacts to. He just gives her a bemused sort of look, eyebrows flickering upwards. "My dear, it isn't always easy to navigate the landscape of your temperament, given you change what you feel strongly about from moment to moment. Are you going to enlighten me, or shall we play a guessing game?" He drains a good portion of his glass, but for his part, he's savouring it rather than making a point. "Perhaps," he allows, reluctantly. "M'wen and Maja didn't seem enamoured of the idea, though."

"Neither am I. Though it would be nice if we could handpick our next goldrider, whenever that might be. I'm not completely enamored of shouldering the responsibility Tavrie will be. She's-," a beat, "Simpering." Satiet, shrugging, drains the rest of her wine and sets the glass down, pushing it away slightly closer to R'hin. "Ista has not visited me in months. I have not visited Ista. If you need more of a clue than that, then denying you the pleasure of further information is my duty to you until you regain some sense of astuteness."

"Simpering?" R'hin echoes, with interest. "Indeed." He seems thoughtful, concerned. "Perhaps she is merely having... a difficult adjustment. She wouldn't be the first one of us, after all." It is observation, rather than any kind of defensiveness, as he swirls around the wine remaining in his own glass. Brows twitch up, then a low-voice chuckle follows after a beat. "I'd noticed the lack of a certain bronze on your ledge, Satiet," again, he says her name in that close, knowing way, "But not having seen hair nor hide of your illustrious weyrmate until now, I did not imagine it significant."

"Where the dragon goes, so too does the rider." Satiet returns, though any frustration with the denseness of mankind seems to melt fractionally. "And who a dragon picks, you'd think they'd be able to adjust by now, at least. B'yan seems to be adjusting far more quickly than our latest would-be weyrwoman. It's been at least four months, time enough for her to realize what Nabrimeth means and to think of her future rather than wallowing in self-pity now." But enough with Tavrie, the slight hair toss seems to indicate. "Tell me, R'hin, tell me of your plans again and when you plan for them to come to fruition."

"Leiventh does not reside on Teonath's ledge," R'hin observes, mildly. He reaches for the bottle, refilling both glasses, leaning back in his chair afterwards. "Tavrie, I suspect, feels the weight of the future on her shoulders. Some handle it better than others. Some," a flicker of a smile, "Are not meant for such things. Are you irritated with her, or with the fact that, by random chance, she might become Weyrwoman in your place?" The query is posed with a brief pause, though he doesn't seem to expect an answer, given that on the heels follows another query: "Are you so impatient for change, you would have me depose a Weyrwoman?" The question might at first seem flippant, though the way in which he watches the goldrider, expectant, makes it anything but.

Nonchalant, and overly sweet, the goldrider responds with: "Perhaps Leiventh will find a warmer sunning spot there." The renewed subject of Tavrie and implications of Satiet's jealousy darken the pale eyes. "Are you so patient now for the change you were driven towards just months ago, complacent with your larger knot that change will come surely, sometime, whenever?"

Flickered surprise shows deep in pale eyes, the Weyrleader studying the woman for some time. "Perhaps," he agrees, eventually, though there's a definite glitter of pleasure in pale eyes. Fingers tighten marginally around the glass, "My thoughts are -always- in the future, weyrwoman, and I grow concerned at what I see, and the lack of vision of others around me. It is something to be done carefully, not as a greenrider in a bevy of men. If you wish me to be so obvious-- you have only to command me, my lady," the latter words hold a thread of mocking, accompanied by a slight shift of his upper body in a half bow.

"And if I command you to shut up and kiss me?" Satiet asks, her face turned just so, taunting in its expectantly sly smirk.

"Then I've little recourse but to obey," R'hin responds, setting side his glass.

"Sometimes. Sometimes," Satiet breathes out, her exhale containing just barely enough of a note to sound like words, "You make it far too easy, sir." Rising delight dances visibly in her blue gaze, coexisting easily with the darkened shadows of before, and for now, discussion of plans, weyrlings, jealousy, and ambition are tabled while she leans forward, rather than to wait for him to come, to begin a slow, soft kiss.

A knowing curl of lips is R'hin's only response, leaning in to match Satiet's movements - thoughts of the future, for once, far from his mind.