Logs:Of Apples
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| RL Date: 5 March, 2006 |
| Who: Rathin, Satiet |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Your location's current time: 16:13 on day 31, month 10, Turn 56, of the Tenth Pass. It is a autumn afternoon. You go deeper into the orchards. Orchards Across the slopes of the hills, neat rows of apple trees extend as far as the eye can see in almost every direction; spreading away from the clearing to the northwest. The trees are bare of apples and leaves, giving the orchards an empty, deserted feel. Though they are pretty when snow or ice coats the branches, and the solitude can be refreshing, a prolonged visit can bring feelings of unease. The warm overtones of summer color the Hold and its surroundings with rich earthy tones and deep shaded greens. Far off in the distance the white dots of ovines can be made out against the mountainsides, even the distant bleats can be heard. Closer in, the rustling of the huge stands of apple trees in Nabol's orchard fill the air with a gentle restfulness. The same aura seems to extend outwards to the Hold, its residents sleepily going about their tasks in the midday heat, or more briskly come dawn and dusk as it cools. Contents: Satiet Ancient Malus Tree. Obvious exits: Clearing
The heavy scent of ripe apples hangs in the crisp afternoon air. High above, a bright sun provides little warmth despite the light, and just without the orchards, in a spot obscured from sight by the passing trader, lies a half-slumbering queen. Missing that, however, makes the slight raven-haired girl within the trees just another one of the Nabolese orchard workers. Her shoulder lacks a knot, and hovering around the base of a wide tree, two hands planted at its side, the scruffy-haired man is cast a cool once-over that flicks upwards in disdain. Silent for now, Satiet slips back behind the trunk to wait for him to pass by. And that's exactly what Rathin sees as the trader's eyes flicker past Satiet, stop, and return for an appraising glance. Brows flicker upwards, and a smile creeps across the man's features as he slows, then deliberately adjusts his path to bring him closer to the young woman. The smile turns to something a bit closer to a smirk as his arms fold across his chest, leaning against one of the trees. "A little underdressed for work, aren't you love?" In the time he takes to come across, Satiet's turned so her back's resting on the trunk, ostensibly to wait out his exploration. However, if she's surprised by the comment that interrupts her silence, there's enough experience reflected in the pale eyes that give Rathin another sidelong once over, resulting in one brow hitching upward in cold askance. "Don't you have to be running along, shirking whatever task you're supposed to be doing, hmmm? Run along, little boy." Two fingers lift, imitating feet scurrying off into the distance. Rather than taking any sort of offense, the response Rathin receives only serves to pique the young man's interest. He chuckles, pushing away from the tree as he moves closer to Satiet - still outside her personal space, but not by much. He's got the advantage of height, and is apparently not above using that either, stopping by the tree the woman's leaning against, one hand stretching up above his head to rest against it. "Ah. So it's the spoiled little daddy's girl, is it? I should've picked it from the clothing." A jaunty eye is cast across Satiet's figure, very obviously, "And the fact that you look as if you couldn't pick up a twig let alone an apple." For a beat, she holds her ground, the sharp chin lifting stiffly. "Hardly," Satiet's defense doesn't contain a note of defensiveness. "Hasn't anyone told you about making assumptions and how it just makes an ass out of you, but not me?" But it's the hand that plants itself on -her- tree that causes her to ease off of it, her own arms finding a home crossed over her chest. Unruffled, even if she's been forced to move, she scoffs with a toss of her dark braids, "And what else can you pick up on the way I'm dressed? How many siblings I have, where I live, my favorite color?" "Sure," Rathin replies easily, "People say that all the time, but I figure that's what they say when they can't come up with a suitable response. Stupid people borrow other's words; intelligent ones are willing to go out on a limb and make an... ass... out of themselves." His head tilts to one side, one brow rising as if awaiting Satiet's response to that. Pleased grin steals across his face as she retreats slightly from the tree, and further claiming his hold over it, the scruffy-haired man drops his arm then leans shoulder and hip against the trunk. "From your attitude alone I'd say you're an only child, you live in the tallest room on Pern, and your favourite colour is pink - but you tell everyone it's red because you're embarrassed by it." The creamy cheeks flush scarlet, and Satiet's lips twitch dangerously. "I see," she replies edgily, instead of what spiteful retort is just written all over her features. "You've called me love, when I don't even know -who- you are, or care to know, you've called me stupid, and-," Failing to find a suitable third response, the fingers that have already come up play in the air, folding and then unbending to fill the silence. "Satiet." He's allowed his verbal sparring win, and is granted her name, however coolly said, as reward. "High Reaches Weyr." Surprisingly, Rathin is a gracious winner, only the sharply pleased gleam of blue eyes acknowledging the victory. "Don't take it personally, love. A lot of people on Pern are stupid. And I'm not talking about the drudges." He seems to enjoy the silence, since it conveys discomfort on her part, still leaning casually against the trunk. However, at the mention of her name and her home, he blinks in surprise, straightening slowly, rescinding claim to the tree. "Satiet," he echoes, "of High Reaches Weyr?" Recognition can be heard in the slow repetition, as he looks distinctly nonplussed for a moment, mouth opening and closing, a more thorough inspection given to Satiet. "Well, perhaps then I'm lucky you don't care to know my name." The grin returns after a moment, conceding a tie, and composure returns swiftly enough: "So, Satiet of High Reaches, -is- your favourite colour red?" When he recognizes her name, despite the lack of title attached, the dark-haired girl seems resigned to something or other, and the prickle is overlaid with something less genuine, but slightly more nice. "I am hardly stupid, but I will concede that you've won this round," she adds a verbal concession on top of her unvocalized one. "And to assume I'm stupid or that my favorite color is red isn't a bold gesture, or particularly intriguing. I'm sure you net yourself a good handful of girls with that pseudo charm of yours." She turns, another swift toss of those tiny braids sent Rathin's way, and resumes the task he interrupted: studying the tree up and down critically, possibly to climb. "My mother always said introductions are a way to continue a conversation. So unless you plan on introducing yourself, you may as well continue on your way." "Believe me, I'm not -trying- to be charming. It comes naturally whether I wish it to or not." The words are stated without any sort of ego attached to it, as far as Rathin is concerned, though it is followed up by a roguish grin. The attention to the tree is noted, and as if attempting to reclaim the tree - or possibly Satiet's attention - he once more leans a hand firmly against the trunk. "Oh, ho!" He chortles, "A minute ago you didn't care to know who I was, now you would ignore my presence if I don't introduce myself. Do your moods change with the direction of wind, Satiet of High Reaches? A pleasure to meet you, my lady, I am Rathin of the Beowin Traders, shirker, scoundrel, and whatever other dastardly label you'd care to attach to me - go on, I'm not shy." His tone, like his words, are deliberately mocking, light blue eyes fixed on Satiet with just a hint of a smile. "Well, if you plan on continuing to speak with me, instead of being dismissed like most people do when told to, I'd like to know your name, yes. Other than that, I doubt our paths will cross again, and to get to know each other any better seems to be moot. You're," out of the corner of her eyes, icy eyes fixate onto the scruffiness of the trader's hair, "You," is finally decided on, "And I'll not be staying at Nabol much longer." Satiet turns back to the tree, ignoring Rathin's hand -- it must be deliberate given it's right there -- and cranes to spy the sun between the heavily leaf-hung branches. A slim hand comes up to shade her eyes, and exhaling, she gestures up, "You said I could barely snap a twig in half. Then, if I fall, I'll surely break a few bones on my way down." "That was a dismissal? I hadn't realised. Backwards traders such as myself are oblivious to such nuances as you're used to." Rathin's other hand is pressed against his heart, as if in silent apology, though he doesn't go so far as to bother voicing it, since it would obviously be what it is: insincere. "As for the other, I believe I know you well enough for my part, and it's you who has decided to remain; this is my home after all. Admit it, you're fascinated by me." A deliberate smile on the young trader's lips, head tipping to one side in momentary appraisal of the slight figure before him. "Would you like a hand, Satiet of High Reaches?" His hand gestures towards the tree above him without shifting his glance, "That is, if you can bring yourself low enough to accept the assistance of a mere trader. I promise to catch you, should you fall." The hand that finds his is calloused at the finger tips and patchy along the protrusions of her palm. For once, Satiet allows that to speak for her rather than add any unnecessary quip: the fact that she has taken a mere trader's hand, and the roughness of work that's worn smoother hands down in time. "Traders are as backwards as fishermen, I bet." Sharp features are made all the more defined by the slant of sunlight that cause shadows to play on her cheeks and along the high slope of her forehead as she turns to consider Rathin straight on, seeking his light blue with her own pale ice chips. Holding that gaze steady, she purses her lips, shedding some of that exterior defensive nature in a dangerously mild remark, "You best hope you catch me, Rathin of the Beowin traders." This segues into her tightening her grip and bouncing lightly on the balls of her sandals. "Certainly we are," Rathin concedes with barely a pause, "We've also been known to kidnap ladies and force them to buy clothing and trinkets. We are, indeed, a dastardly bunch." He takes Satiet's hand, thumb deliberately brushing over the skin on the back of her hand, his expression pleased as he meets her gaze head on; light blue eyes unwavering, fixed on those cool eyes. "You'd best hope you know me well enough to trust that I will, Satiet of High Reaches," he retorts, the words equally mild, and not at all mocking. He's the first to break the gaze, bending on one knee to provide a step for the slight woman to use, still holding her hand to provide additional balance. "Ah, fishermen aren't known for that. They're known for wooing lasses and secreting them off onto ships so they forget their life on land," returns the young weyrwoman. "I suppose it places traders on a more dastardly level than other folk, and should you kidnap me for your own nefarious gain, you would do well to remember where dragonmen go, their beasts aren't far off." Satiet flashes a saccharine smile, mocking his attempts at charm with the realities of her position. "So, my trust of you relies on your common sense, which," she eyes the knee offered and kicks off her sandals so she can gingerly place a bare foot onto it, "Is a large assumption on my part." The other foot's sandal is wiggled off, and the entirety of her slight weight is placed onto his leg. "That's hardly sporting, and no challenge at all," Rathin declares, now watching Satiet from below, head tipped upwards to watch the woman. A slight pause follows, smile only increasing: "True, however since any kidnapping I might be inclined to do would be only to give a woman pleasure... material pleasure, that is," he amends, though slow enough to make it clear that the 'slip' was deliberate, "I doubt any dragon would object, unless they find the loss of wealth a nefarious purpose." He braces himself slightly as Satiet places her foot on his leg, hand tightening slightly on hers to hold her steady. He pitches his voice several octaves higher in an effort to imitate Satiet's - a reasonable job on intonation if not precise pitch: "Indeed it is a great assumption. And you know what they say about -that-?" She can't help herself, despite the visible attempts to clamp down on a visible reaction, and the severe set of Satiet's lips twitch, curving into a thin smile. Leaving the bulk of his comments unremarked on, the smile says enough as it is, her lips sink into a lopsided smirk to accompany her dry reflection, "You enjoy setting yourself up to be slapped by a number of women, don't you?" No moves are made to begin the action of climbing the tree. The trader's grin deepens into a momentary smirk, though it doesn't stay there long. The smile lingers on Rathin's face as he notes Satiet's reaction, silently pleased by it. "Could I request that you slap my right cheek rather than the left? I think think the left is starting to get a permanent mark on it. Either that, or you could punch me, but-- no, I forgot for a moment. You're a lady, Satiet of High Reaches, not a fisher's wife." It can't be a comfortable position for him to hold, bent on one kneed like that, but the goldrider's weight isn't a heavy burden, and the lack of tree climing elicits no protestations from the scruffy-haired man. "You'd be infuriating if I bothered to care." Silkenly spoken, the words belie the fact that she's still there speaking to him. With another of those careless hair tosses, Satiet returns to surveying the tree, her initial bounces gentle to gain her the momentum to climb to the first branch with ease. Once situated on the branch, with her slender legs dangling, the dark-haired woman glances down, "Your world view must be very narrow, trader, if you believe a fisher's wife cannot be a lady." Rathin's easy laugh greets Satiet's words, as he concludes, "Since you don't care, I take it to mean I won't be slapped today - which makes it a good day." He does what he can to steady the woman as she reaches for the first branch, allowing her hand to slip from his. Once she's in the tree itself, he stands, head tipped back to watch the raven-haired woman from below, purportedly positioning himself to catch her should she fall, but more obviously simply to enable him to better admire the view. "Quite the opposite, however most fisher's wives wouldn't have the gall to act as if the world should obey them while they wander around climbing trees for the fun of it." It's a belated remembrance hinging on the fact that suddenly Rathin is below and looking up, that Satiet recalls the fact she's wearing a sarong. In response, her ankles cross primly, though the flush that rises on her cheeks is somewhat iffy given the direct sunlight that makes a view of her face without shadows difficult. The view, what little that could be glimpsed, was stunning. Of course it is. She even has baby pink undergarments. "I'm afraid, whatever you may have heard, my slapping days are behind me. If only so I don't have to listen to the umpteenth lecture from my Weyrwoman on Weyr-hold relations, or in this case Weyr-trader." Steadying herself with two hands that grab onto the branch, the goldrider inches towards a leafy bower where a few apples remain, unplucked by the orchard workers. "Do you eat apples, trader?" A quiet chortle emanates from the young man below, Rathin's expression not in the least bit chagrined at being caught admiring the view. "I've heard nothing, simply your name, Satiet of High Reaches. Though I shall have to make sure to listen more closely from now on, since I suspect there is interesting gossip to be heard about you." His hands spread wide, shrugging easily, "I've no problems at all with your... relations... with me, though I didn't think we were -that- close yet, but I'm willing to give it a go." He makes no pretense at hiding the double entendre, shifting slowly sideways to match Satiet's position as she moves along the branch. Instead of answering her question, he counters: "Does Lord Nabol know you're intending to steal from his orchard?" Two apples are plucked, overly ripe, soft to the touch and most likely exceedingly sweet. "What Lord Nabol neglects to pick, he allows his holders to take for themselves. These are the unwanted apples, those not perfect enough for his household, or tithes." Unperturbed by his insinuations, Satiet grips the two apples in one hand tightly, inching back towards the sturdier half of the branch. "If it were that easy, Rathin ap Beowin, to have relations with me, you'd be the last on the list of plausible men." The strength of one arm seems to be enough for her to swing herself down and land with a soft thud to the ground below, veering so she'll avoid the trader lest he moves. "He allows his Holders, yes - Satiet of -High Reaches-." Deliberate emphasis, the only response Rathin gives. Fixed attention follows Satiet's progress back along the branch, one hand half lifting as if to steady the woman when she jumps down - though it drops as he sees she's fine. He casually resumes leaning against the trunk of the tree, eyes drifting over Satiet's form. "Don't flatter yourself, love, you don't rate very highly with me either. Your nose is a little too turned up for my tastes." It's hard to tell whether he means that physically or metaphorically; perhaps both. "Thankfully, my weyrmate holds to his own opinions on both my looks and personality." Satiet rubs one apple against her camisole, then the other, before rolling her shoulders backward and extending one towards the trader. "I trust it matters little of what you think of me beyond my capabilities of weyrwoman, which in an Interval intersects paths with yours very little. Do you eat apples, Rathin, or do you plan to stand there and quibble over semantics the rest of my afternoon off?" "Let me guess. A bronzerider weyrmate? How shocking! I'm sure he's willing to put up with anything under the expectation that one day your dragon will rise as senior, and he'll be your Weyrleader." A knowing smile appears on Rathin's face, soon followed by a snort of amusement. "I was rather enjoying the quibbling, but since you insist--" he reaches for the apple, making a show of rubbing it against his own shirt, before he takes a bite. Swallowing, he states, "I'll give you credit, you can pick a tasty apple. Maybe there are undiscovered talents in you yet." Satiet feigns shock, her free hand fluttering about her like a fan, and her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, I'm sure a man would put up with turns of abuse at my delicate hand for the sheer chance of being Weyrleader one day. He'd do better to court the likes of the actual Senior Weyrwoman." But she doesn't deny the fact that her weyrmate rides bronze, or her own desire to be senior, regardless of B'rakis' own aspirations, and the disgruntlement with his spot-on assessment, at least in regards to her whether he was direct about it or not, is betrayed in shifting eyes that turn studiously towards her apple. The black smudges on it need to be wiped away completely. "And what talents have you discovered in yourself, that don't involve torturing helpless young woman with your ever so witty remarks, or having an overinflated sense of self?" Aware he's scored a hit in some fashion, Rathin's demeanour remains casual still, taking another bite of the apple before an eyebrow rises. "Oh, I'm sure he's smart enough to know the Senior Weyrwoman's weyrmated and he has little chance with her. An impressionable young goldrider, however, ready to be flattered and told she's beautiful and intelligent, well. Who knows, you may well be very handy in the furs, which would make it easier. He probably even tells you he likes pink underwear." The trader, for his part, takes the honest words with a grin, "They're my specialties, Satiet of High Reaches. I have a very long list of virtues, however since you don't care to know me, I wouldn't wish to burden you with such knowledge. It might make you lie awake at night beside your weyrmate and think about me, if I did." It's a lucky thing for Rathin that Satiet hasn't sunk her teeth into the apple just yet, and thus stickifying her fingers. It's a lucky thing, moreso, when her hand lifts, unbidden, to fly towards his cheek. Apparently, there are just some insults she can't suffer, Weyr-trader relations or no. If her slap should hit, it'll sting and leave a mark and is unfortunately aimed at his left cheek. Rathin doesn't move, and the slap connects firmly enough that his head is pushed to the side. He opens his mouth, exercising his jaw a bit, his free hand rubbing against the left cheek. There is, however, an odd glimmer to the young man's eyes as he looks back towards the pale iced eyes of the goldrider; somewhere between satisfaction and amusement. "I said the right," he says, rubbing at his cheek another moment - already red and a bit raised - before continuing, "You know, you remind me of a harper's tale I once heard, about a young woman who was once the daughter of a drudge, living in an abandoned weyr high in the mountains. She stayed up there so long that she began to believe she was above everyone, so that one day when a young man stumbled across her, she stuck her nose high into the air and pretended to ignore him rather than deign to speak to him. I thought it was a piece of fanciful muck, really, but I think I found the heart of the story." Rathin adds, after a quick pause, "It was the remark about the underwear, wasn't it? -That- I apologise about. It was uncalled for. Everything else I meant." Satiet's mouth opens to retort, closes, and for a long moment of indecisive wavering, she looks decidedly like a fish. The palm of the hand that struck Rathin clenches reflexively, held back from adding further physical abuse. "And-," she exhales, struggling to regain any semblance of calm, "And -what- part of /that/ story did you find the heart of?" His apology only deepens the blush shade on her cheeks and darkens the crystalline chips of her eyes. Rathin holds the apple in one hand, not taking another bite yet as he continues to rub his cheek, finally letting his hand drop. His eyes are drawn to Satiet's hand, as if curious to see if another slap will be forthcoming - though he seems apt to take the abuse, as deserved as it is. "Well," he says, eventually, "It's obvious, isn't it? The woman doesn't want to speak to the man, for fear that he might coax her down from her self-imposed exile, where she can easily believe she's above everyone and everything. She can believe in the fantasy that she's special in some way, different from everyone else. Because if he convinces her to return to the real world, she'll be reminded of the fact that she's nothing more than what she was born: the daughter of a drudge. Some people find it far easier to push away others in order to pretend they're something they're not." "And when have I not spoken to you?" Satiet returns, still fighting against the visible urge to smack Rathin once more. Her nails dig into the apple, leaving two crescent marks in the crimson skin. "And what have you done to coax me from myself-imposed exile?" Her bare shoulders are tense, thinness betrayed in the sharp bones that jut out. Without the orchards, a calming trill of sounds that seem to overlap croon inwards. Taking a bit of a gamble, Rathin stops watching Satiet's hand, eyes flickering up to her face, though it's a difficult thing to do. "You're taking it too literally, Satiet of High Reaches. It's a metaphoric tale - in your head you're better than everyone, you live in a world where you're -above- everyone." He leans back against the tree, his left cheek flushed visibly. "When I first walked in here, what did you do? You were expecting - hoping - I'd just walk right on by, weren't you?" His eyes dart briefly to one side, hearing that faint trill, visibly tensing a little. Clearly, he'd forgotten -entirely- about the fact that the slight girl in front of him is attached to a very large dragon. "And you think I was avoiding you because I believe I'm better than you?" What little warmth he might have elicited before, the apple 'gifted', the touch of hands granted, the various little things that do matter vastly to Satiet, disappear into an abrupt coldness that does live up to his assessment of an aloof lady in a tower. "And you? Who assume I'm just another hold girl to be flirted with, with very little leave given, make every last assumption as to the state of affairs between myself and my mate -- you believe you have a right to judge how I act in light of that? Your pretty speeches and allegories of snobbery-," Unable to continue, possibly out of breath, but more at a loss of what else to tack onto her already longwinded speech, Satiet lapses into silence and begins to reach down to collect her sandals. "Don't worry," she doesn't even have to look to recognize his remembrance of her dragon, "She won't eat you. You're probably too sour for her palate." The trader's attention is brought swiftly enough back to the goldrider. "Well, I must have been right about something, or I doubt that I would've been slapped so solidly - nor upset your dragon?" Rathin retorts, one hand brushing his cheek briefly and wincing. "Probably," he agrees to the latter, holding up the apple a moment, "But I thank you for the gift. Even if it wasn't technically yours to give. It was certainly a pleasure meeting you, Satiet of High Reaches." It's hard to tell if that last is mocking or not - since he did appear to enjoy it, regardless of the slapping he received. "Or maybe," Satiet allows, her walk making her voice muffled just by the simple fact that she's not turned towards him, "Despite the fact I live in a Weyr, I do not believe what happens between a man and a woman should be spoken so coarsely by a perfect -stranger-." The slight emphasis conveys disdain, the desire to replace the word with 'fool' rather than what she did select. "For your own benefit," begins her last remark, her steps already leading her out towards the afternoon sun, "I would've been a fisherman's wife had I not Impressed, and I hope our paths should not cross again." Oddly, Rathin's parting words are not insult, as much of his words have been, but simple compliment, lacking any mocking tone: "You are a credit to diplomacy at your Weyr, Satiet of High Reaches. I shall cherish our only meeting." There's the faint sounds of crunching, as the scruffy-haired trader resumes munching on his apple.
A signed note accompanying it reads: 'I shall be very disappointed if pink is indeed not your favourite colour, since I will only have the pleasure of imagining what this looks like on you, rather than witnessing it in person. Since a backwards fisherman said it would be the perfect present for a fisherman's wife, so it seems only apt that I should present it to you. Signed, The Scoundrel of Nabol Hold.'
CommentsSatiet (Satiet) left a comment on Wed, 28 Sep 2011 02:55:35 GMT.
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Satiet (Satiet) left a comment on Wed, 28 Sep 2011 02:55:35 GMT.
I'd almost forgotten how it all started. <3
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