Logs:Rascela's Silver Thread
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| RL Date: 23 November, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, Rascela |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| Where: Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
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| Satiet's Weyr, High Reaches 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.
The Weyrwoman's weyr, sparsely decorated, but inviting with its lit hearth and plush rugs. Midst this, Satiet stands by her stone table, her fingers curled about the tops of a crystalline glass filled with brandy while another, similar glass, sits nearby. That it's before the lunching hour seems to matter very little as the glass lifts to press briefly to her lips, enough to wet her tongue, before it's set back down again and with her free hand lifted to press fingers into her temple, the pale eyes look to the entrance. Watchful. Veiled impatience. Perhaps waiting for the weyrling she's taken the time to invite by written note to her weyr, at this hour. Quiet in more than just the verbal sense, it's not until she's nearly at the entrance of the weyr that she might be heard. The slight scuff of a boot, another step, and then Rascela comes into view. She doesn't enter the weyr, instead taking the span of a few seconds to note the decor and the location of the Weyrwoman. She's neat enough -- shirt tucked in and all -- and, if she's tired, she hides it well enough. Her chin lifts and the greeting is completed with: "Mornin'." That she's neat enough is summarily dismissed; it's to be expected after all. That she's quiet with only the slightest boot scuffs; that merely draws Satiet's gaze belatedly to Rascela's arrival, just catching sight of the weyrling's study of her quarters before her greeting. The thinnest smile is favored the brownrider, her glass lifted to toast the other woman's arrival. "Morning. Sit, have a drink." A nod suffices as unquestioning acceptance, the young woman closing the distance between here and there with just as many steps as are needed. Rascela takes that seat, of course, and summarily reaches for the glass to take just a taste of it, thus fulfilling all of the directives given. "Thankya," is eventually given, gray eyes slanting askance to study the other woman in a silence that might be expectant in others, but in her merely translates into simple patience. "I am," begins the weyrwoman, her fingers playing along the sides of the glass, "Supposed to teach those of you that are marked specially, dancing." Boy, is she looking forward to it, what with the drinking in the morning bit. "But you don't seem the dancing type. You don't seem the social type period. So please," her hands draw away from the glass, palms up in mock supplication, "Tell me now that you feel otherwise, or we'll just ignore that part of your 'leadership' training." The sarcastic airquotes are palpable about that word. Another sip of brandy is taken while she listens, attention unwavering. The glass is set down and Rascela straightens a little, palms coming to rest on her knees. "Is it somethin' I gotta know?" is the question she has, which conveniently leaves the actual question asked unanswered. Not that it lasts long, as one shoulder rises and her features scrunch up a little. "Ain't my kinda thing," an unsurprising confirmation of Satiet's assessment, "but if I gotta know it, I gotta know it." Satiet's, "You don't gotta know anything," is mocking, but amused nonetheless at Rascela's attitude towards dancing. Still standing, the slight woman begins to walk slowly, rounding about the table and observing the brown weyrling out of the corner of her eye. "How's the training taking to you, brownrider? Do you find any of it particularly difficult? Do you have any thoughts of your own?" The mocking is selectively edited out, or at least discarded as being not worth pursuing. Instead, Raz remains seated as she is, unmoving save for her eyes, eyes that track Satiet as far as possible without requiring her to move her head. "Thinkin' they mighta made a mistake," she answers flatly. "But they figured we're ready, so we're doin' th' best we can." A soft snort, more at herself than anything, precedes, "The social stuff ain't easy. The writin' and meetings. But I ain't been much for academics." The last word being carefully enunciated, of course. "No, you're not," says the goldrider, not without a little regret. "Academics and social aptitude are not quite your forte. I wonder what then, is?" Disregarding mistakes in the selection process. Disregarding that /she's/ a likely part of the selection process. Satiet roundabout path halts behind Rascela, a hand falling onto her shoulder, light, barely touching. "What are your strengths, brownrider?" Nor does the brownrider move when the hand touches her shoulder. There's just a steady sense of tension lurking there in the muscles of her shoulder, a detail usually hidden by her usual manner of slouching. Rascela's thoughtful frown, however, goes unseen -- but not unheard. "Doin' things. That's my strength. If it's gotta be done, I'll do it." Come fog, 'fall, or fire. Her mouth pulls. "Helpin' th' others, too. Self-defense, mostly, but sometimes they got questions an' they figure I've got th' answer. Don't do any good if any of us can't keep up." Another pause, more thoughtful digging. "Gettin' better at the writin', at least. Takin' notes an' all. Tryin'." The delicately held fingers, when finding the tension that lies beneath the slouching, pauses, poised just about the round of Rascela's shoulder. Then it weighs a little more pressure, her thumb digging into a particular point of tense muscle before she releases and steps back. "Doesn't sound much like leadership, does it? Writing. Talking. Socializing." Satiet returns to her side of the table, returning to her glass and finally takes a seat. Her legs cross neatly, her posture straight, and leaning back into that seat, she lifts her glass of brandy once more. "Would be nice if it were just about helping people, or doing things. I've a project I'd like you to take on." "It don't really," she agrees, eyes only momentarily half-lidded at the pressure to that point of her shoulder. The moment passes and Rascela forces herself further upright, just in time to see Satiet claim her seat and her glass. The brownrider reaches to take her glass as well, though not to drink, not right away. "But, someone's gotta do it." Whether that includes her or not is, as yet, undecided on her part. To the last, a slow, curious lift of her eyebrows, "A'right." A fortifying sip later, Satiet's glass is held in the curve of her palms and her gaze is flat upon Rascela. "I have another mentee." Which should just say it all, but the weyrwoman continues, her slim, straight posture folding as she leans forward into the table, her elbows braced into the top. "You don't talk much. He talks entirely too much, too often, and without thinking. And you say you're good at- helping. People. And he needs help that neither I, nor the weyrlingmaster staff, seems to be able to provide. I'd like you to speak to him and then send him my way once you believe he's ready to rejoin the- Weyr at large." Pale eyes lift, guileless. "Just talk to him. See where you go with it." And while Satiet speaks, Rascela drinks. Not gulping, but not sipping either; as a result, her emptied glass is set down well before it probably should have been. It's set down gently, though, and her hand withdraws. "Hnh." Considering, though there's not much /to/ consider. "A'right," she repeats from before. "Reckon we could do that." Her and Uanth; maybe more Uanth than her. But she seems to have connected enough dots to know who, or else felt now was the time to add an incidental, "P'ax has somethin' for ya. Peace offerin', sounds like." Rascela's ability to connect dots, to pick up on those unspoken cues, or at least know enough of the goings on of her fellow weyrlings to know who Satiet's other mentee is -- it draws a thin smile and a tacit nod. Approval. Then amusement. "Do you think I'm a woman to be bought over with peace offerings, brownrider?" "Told him it couldn't hurt," Rascela does admit, but she ultimately shakes her head, fingers tapping on her knees in a single, quick circuit -- pinky to pinky, the fingers from left to right tap once. "Don't figure you're th' type to be bought over by anythin' less than honesty, ma'am." A glance to the weyr resolves in the brownrider looking more squarely at Satiet. "What folks do, how they act, that's more important." To her, to Raz? Both, perhaps. "I can talk to him. Ain't gonna promise a miracle, but I can promise I'll try." "Before our next encounter." The please is unsaid, but possibly heard in the lilting intonation of her words. Or in the pale eyes that lift, frank and filled with clarity as they look up to try and catch sight of Rascela's gray. "An essay, as well. If you find the time in between helping others and just doing. Just your thoughts on why I'daur is weyrlingmaster, despite his own talent for non-verbalness. And just how his team complements his teaching methods." In one fluid motion, Satiet gets to her feet, reaching across to the bottle of brandy in the middle of the table and pushes it forward. "I'm sure you know a few fellow, non-silvered weyrlings that might enjoy that with you." "Will do," is a reassertion of that promise, Rascela brushing her hands off on her thighs. While the essay might be worth a soft exhalation that's not quite a snort, she acquiesces with a nod. When Satiet rises, so does she, perceiving that the encounter is either at an end or coming close enough to it that a bit of stretching wouldn't be looked oddly upon. The bottle, though, that does garner a curious look and a tilt of her head. "I do. 'ppreciate it, Weyrwoman. They will, too." Her reaching for it, though, results in a moment where her hand hovers over the bottle -- awaiting confirmation, implied as it might be. There's a beat, where she's standing and Rascela's standing. There's a beat where Satiet just looks upon the gruff, taciturn weyrling. "If you need anything else, have Uanth ask Teonath. And don't get drunk." Another, silent beat that's then followed by ironic advice; "A leader doesn't get drunk in front of her men. Clear skies, Rascela." "Fair 'nuff. 'ppreciate it." Earnestly meant, with a nod. To the last, a flat, "Don't plan on it," being drunk, that is. The bottle is taken up, briefly appraised, then tucked in the crook of an arm. A tipped salute is given, then Rascela turns. Her usual tendency to forego a farewell is dropped, however, for her to echo, "Clear skies, Weyrwoman." And, soon enough, she's gone, precious cargo in tow. |
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