Logs:Mending
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| RL Date: 4 December, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, P'ax |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| Where: Nursery, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
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| Nursery, High Reaches Weyr The double door to the nursery is sturdy skybroom and a good three inches thick, meant to contain the natural noisiness of young children. Beyond the doors, a complex of interconnected, glowlit caverns houses the Weyr's infants and children under seven, opening out from a gaily painted foyer where an auntie usually sits to guide visitors and keep a rheumy eye out for would-be escapees. Two large play caverns see the most everyday use, their smooth walls decorated with layers of more fanciful paintings left by generations of rider and resident offspring. While one cavern is nearly bare, intended mostly for running and roughhousing during inclement weather, the other is lined with shelves at the right height for short legs, stocked with suitable toys, games and crafting supplies aplenty. Beyond the play caverns are two 'quiet' rooms, one with cribs and cradles, the other with low cots for use during both naptime and nighttime sleeping, each with a small sleeping cubicle for nannies on duty during the night shift.
Just prior to lunch, it's one of Satiet's habits to peek into the nursery; to check in on her daughters and to have a few words with the nursery staff. It's so well-known that many of the nannies who harbor a fear of the Weyrwoman tend to vacate the premises with various other charges leaving only one matronly woman with a cluster of twenty children. It's with this woman, the contrast between slight and rotund sharp as they stand side by side, whom Satiet converses with, a more often than not infrequently seen look of pleasantness about her sharp features. And though their interlude concludes, the nanny moving swiftly to prevent a calamity of towering blocks and impending tears, Satiet stands back along the fringes to observe bright blonde curls that bobble midst her peers. Really, no pressure! Well, it's not like P'ax possessed an iota of good sense. If he did, he probably wouldn't have hunted to Weyrwoman down in this unlikely element. He wades past toddling children when he spots her, smoothing a hand down his shirt and pulling the brim of his knitted cap lower over his forehead. He clears his throat and tries in his best 'polite' voice, "Weyrwoman?" What better time to interrupt the Weyrwoman's time than when at leisure? Or better yet, when she's already in a pleaseant mood, half-smiling at the antics of her rather outspoken blonde daughter. A headshake leads into a roll of her eyes and the slight woman seems about to be on her way to turning when P'ax's approach and subsequent greeting are noted first. Then, his state of dress and his knitted cap. The slight curve of her lips wavers, not quite able to quench the amusement of seconds prior, and though the light on her features fades a little, her movement stops, and a cordial drop of her chin is afforded the greenrider. "Good morning." P'ax is clean, it's a start. His eyes flick back and forth for a moment, as if assimilating the scene and gauging her mood. "Er, yeah, good morning. I was hoping we could talk a bit." One boot heel digs into the carpet nervously. It's his playing field, so says the turn of her wrists to expose the palms of her hands to him. She's ready if he is, and with an inquisitive light returning to her pale eyes, they once over the erstwhile greenrider from scuffing shoe tips to the top of his cap, before settling on his blue eyes. There's a beat, a small hitch in her breathing, and Satiet seems about to speak, but her parted lips press thin instead and another nod encourages him to continue. P'ax had obviously been hoping for her to say something. When she doesn't, he kinda deflates. "Oh. I guess I'll start." He reaches up and scratches the back of his head absently. "Er, thanks... for talking to me again. I'm sorry about how I acted before. I'm not very good with women yet. Persie's helping though, and Raz. They're nice. Sometimes Leova's nice too, when she doesn't steal my dinner rolls." He casts her a nervous, fertive glance to see if she's mad at the rambling. A deep breath in and he swallows convulsively. "I'm worried about Yyth. Or, maybe not Yyth, but the others. Yyth, she takes it pretty well. But especially Uanth and Cadejoth, they think there's something wrong with her. She's got them all wrapped around her claws, you know." A small smile tugs at the corner of his thin lips. "Tausreth, too, I think." With the subject broached, the little tells of P'ax's demeanor are not lost on the slighter figure, for the inquisitive light in Satiet's eyes brightens with the deflation, and the absent scratches along his nape. Measured silence listens as he talks. Her head tilts when he swallows. And then the meat of what he wishes to speak of is touched on, and the dark lashes about her pale eyes lift fractionally, fluttering and then held as she considers his words, and then considers her own response as silence, again, falls between them after his final thoughts. "You're not very good with people," is her first observation, that's followed quickly by dry, "Though, the irony is that I'm the one saying this to you." It doesn't escape her, this irony, as her thin lips shape into a, if not pleasant, at least amused twist. A slim hand extends, the palm curved and held up to the taller rider, while pale eyes, set glittering, lift to seek out P'ax's gaze. "Hi, I'm Satiet, but you can call me ma'am. It's shorter." P'ax might blush, or maybe he's just extra red today. "You make me nervous," he admits in a raspy, forced way. When she extends her hand, he sort of stares at her like she just grew a second head, and it vaguely resembles Faranth. Uncertainly, he extends his hand in return. "Uh, P'ax. Any shorter, and it'd disappear." He shuffles like his physical footing just got as tricky as the metaphorical ground he's on. "Well met, ma'am." Her handshake is firm, though her fingers in his are delicate, seemingly breakable, and she holds it, the touch of palm to palm lingering as she draws in one step closer into the greenrider's personal space. Her alto quiets, cool with a splash of grace, and that sharp, proud little chin of hers lifts once more. "You don't have to like me. You don't have to respect me. But that you're here, apologizing, says to me that you, at least a little if not completely, respect the knot I don't generally like to wear. I appreciate that." It seems that that's the last piece of advice or words she might dole out on their past, as a new light claims her ivory features and she takes that one step back and gently pulls her arm away. "Well met. That blonde there," Satiet decides to share after a fleeting look across P'ax's red face, "She's my daughter." Said blonde who flashes a quick, impish smile her mother's way. P'ax presses his lips together, probably trying to smother some sort of smart retort. His eyes stray towards the children and he admits in a fit of candor, "You don't seem like the sort of lady who'd like children." He rubs his palms together, flexing his fingers in between each other. "They're kinda... sticky." The dark lashes lift, the press of his lips causing some momentarily amusement, and her fine brows knit together. "They are. I dislike children." Though her own might be the exception to the rule, as the shriek of a boy Riahla's 'playing' with sends a shiver of distaste through her slight frame. "I've overstayed my 'moment' of bonding," where the airquotes are tangible and she turns, a hand gesturing out the door towards escape of children. "Riahla's too aware that I'm the Weyrwoman. One day, soon, she'll have to be fostered elsewhere. Unlike Holds, becoming Weyrwoman isn't hereditary." Satiet pauses in the door way, even as she's exiting to the hallway just outside, to turn and study P'ax. "The others have their weyrs now, yes?" P'ax echoes her shudder and turns away almost eagerly, leaving the children behind. When she stops, he stops, a tiny frown tugging his lips. "Yeah, suppose they have. Which is nice, they can take their fleas and their lice to their own homes. And nobody is there to be offended if Yyth brings a souveneir home from the feeding grounds." "You are," she pauses in her thoughts, lashes lifting high, "Free to fly. I will inform I'daur and have Teonath speak to Tausreth." Diplomatically or, perhaps, understandably, assigning the sole male assistant to catch the greenrider up. "And perhaps those peers that have been worried for your dragon's sake will be more than happy to give advice and assist. If you can catch up quickly, your weyr will be ready for you by the end of the sevenday." Satiet takes yet another step out of the nursery, into fresh air, away from sticky hands and turns, hands to hip. "I hope that's satisfactory." |
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