Logs:Another Broken Glass
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| RL Date: 9 October, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei, Satiet |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: After the hatching. |
| When: Day 26, Month 12, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| The Weyrwoman's weyr. Evening comes early and dark at the Reaches in the dead of winter, and the bowl is abandoned almost as soon as the sun goes down, people enjoying the cheer in the Snowasis or the nighthearth or the living cavern where they can huddle around bright-cheery-flames-- so different from three turns ago!-- and enjoy the orange warmth. And then there's N'thei. His footsteps have disappeared in the bowl by now. He fled the party at the first possible moment when he couldn't be accused for it later, made a pleasant farewell, and disappeared for hours. Now it's late, and he slips into Satiet's weyr without the first inkling whether or not she's home. Maybe he just wants to rifle through her underwear drawer, or steal loose change out of her pockets, or try to get laid, or touch-and-rearrange things just to see if she'll notice. Whatever brings him tonight, it includes the smells of brandy and cheap perfume, of cold and flying leathers. His voice fills the room all at once; "Where are you." Late night hatching, early morning party, revelries throughout the day and now home, again, late at night. Nowhere in sight Teonath is never any clear indicator that Satiet isn't present. However, signs of life: a lit hearth keeping the weyr warm, shed girly heels by the entrance, the scarf that complemented her party outfit draped over a chair, and the muffled sounds of singing from the bathing chamber; yes, it seems even Satiet isn't immune to singing in the shower. But the song comes to an abrupt end, when N'thei's voice fills the main chamber and echoes down the tunnel, and a still silence beats her heart five, painfully audible times before the sounds of splashing, feet stamping, and the emergence of a slight woman clad in a towel finds the Weyrleader in her weyr. With dark lashes narrowing over pale eyes and that distinct discomfort of not having the upperhand scoring thin lines on her brow, she finally speaks up with a dry, "Oh, how pleasant." Oh, how pleasant. Might be precisely the words that N'thei would use in this case, the sounds of splashing reaching his ears, pasting on a sudden if rather misplaced smile. He ventures farther within, peels off layers to leave jacket and scarf draped carelessly across the back of a chair, to let them slide halfway to the floor before they catch and hang from the seat. And then Satiet emerges and he comes to a halt, his feet scrape across the stone. "Isn't it." And then, frankly, eyes pinned momentarily to the whole Satiet-in-towel aspect: "A little drunk. Can I stay?" See, drunk enough to ask permission. The eyes pinned garners a reflexive tightening of her hands at the towel ends that wrap in front of her, before the notion that whitened knuckles don't quite convey confidence forces a relaxation about her tense, bare shoulders. In their slow drop is also an audible exhalation from pursed lips and wordlessly, her attention drifts from N'thei staring at her to N'thei's things strewn across her furniture and sweeping her floors. "How pleasant." When in doubt, repeat, and buy time with the repetition. Dark hair about her shoulder, curls tighter for the dampness, and the growing puddle about her feet only serve as reminders that she was mid-bath before his interruption, though instead of retreat, she steps forward. The obvious, "You live just across the way. Not so far to puke on your own couch. Don't lie," the last throwback of his own words drawing a thin smile from her lips. "And I'll consider letting you stay." "Which part is a lie, do you think." That only after taking the time to absorb the whole reaction to his presence, to recognize Satiet's white knuckles and towel-clutching for what they are. N'thei twitches a smile that he doesn't bother to hide, that keeps him company while he crosses the rest of the distance in a few unfairly long strides that point out precisely how much shorter Satiet's are by comparison. "If you say no." He tips a look upward like he's really contemplating that possibility, like he needs extra time even to wrap his slightly inebriated head around the idea that she might possibly say no-- in some alternate universe maybe. "What difference will it make, I wonder. Can I stay?" That's the only real question; the rest of them are just fluff to fill the time. Lashes throw in askance. Oh, what couldn't be a lie? One shoulder, forced into a state of relaxation, lifts into a lopsided shrug while her hands work to tighten and then tuck one edge of the towel in. With her hands free, the semblance of mobility are about to further her steps when he's there, with his unfairly long strides and the smugness that seems to coat his response. "/If/ I say no?" Brows arc, her head turns then lifts, and beads of water remnant from her aborted bath, rest in the hollow of her neck. Such smugness deserves the alternate reality she offers in a low-pitched response; sing-song in its elongation, deliberate in its infused sensuality: "Nooo." Since there's no difference anyway, and thus no need to see N'thei out, Satiet moves sideways a step, then forward towards the liquor pantry. Noooo, and N'thei drawls a response; "Say it like you mean it." So he can enjoy staying despite her. As conscious as she is of the towel situation, he's as aware, and he watches her fingers with a quiet snort. Really, are they playing at chastity tonight? And there she goes, out of reach, draws out the passage of a sorrowful expression to chase her toward the booze. So, uninvited, told to leave, he moves to the sofa, there to sit with an arm draped along the back where his fingers can still beckon for her. And for a drink. "Sit with me." Of course; uninvited, told to leave, he'll sit. It's something she expects of his obstinancy, as evidenced by two glasses being poured out and brought over. "So, a little drunk, you've come here to look morose on my couch, smelling of cheap whores, while I get you more drunk?" An ill-concealed smile quirks crooked and those fine brows arc, bemused. "Deliciously, I feel I might be taking advantage of you, darling." Damn the towel; it gives her some measure of an upperhand -- or at least the fantastical notion she might. But she does sit, just at fingertips' range, legs crossing, and holds out the glass of whiskey. Small talk, dry sympathy. "Long day? Marks, booze, women?" A half-breath beat catches on a belated addition: "Tillek?" The rest may be true, but to look morose? "That's not why I'm here." N'thei takes the glass from her without reserve, the same space of time used to answer her quip about taking advantage of him, the answer in the smirked look that once more reiterates her current state of undress. If anyone's in a position to be taken... "Should we throw the girl out and let them solve it themselves?" Yes, Tillek. Yes, whiskey. The subject and the sip combine to dim the brightness behind his eyes gradually, less watching Satiet like she's his last supper and more just looking quietly across at her like he's really listening for input. Not that anyone should believe he'll take advice or do anything other than exactly what he wants to, but the pretense is there. "Of course not." Cause what man wouldn't want to be taken advantage of, or do the advantage taking in a situation designed by some higher being to go one way or the other; sure. Drink passed on, Satiet sinks back into the couch corner she's claimed, shifting so she might look towards N'thei rather than the hearth's flames. "Yes." No elongation this time, no satisfaction. "Her problem is not ours." But, despite the curt assertion, there lingers a lilt at the end that might segue into a 'but'. Each of her shifts to get comfortable require adjustment to the towel, until she's moved so that her legs bend beneath her, decorous, but more importantly, as she does so, her gaze has fallen to her lap to ostensibly keep track of just how much leg or cleavage she's showing. In reality, to buy some thinking time. Once settled, then do those pale eyes lift slowly, leveling onto N'thei. "But, I would rather see competent Blood ruling Tillek than not-Blooded murderers, however competent." "Isn't it." N'thei gives her a skeptical look, her problem, their problem; the solution found in a swallow, in the grimace that follows no matter how often a man sips at whiskey. "She'll owe us a great deal if she can reclaim Tillek." The alternative goes unsaid but it hangs in the space of silence while he looks down into the bottom of his glass, while he aligns his thumbs on the rim of it. Ysave and Nederan will "owe" them in an entirely different vein if she can't reclaim Tillek. "Not bold enough. She wants it, but she doesn't know how to take it, and I can't do it for her." It's the impotence that leaves him frowning at Satiet's knees, the darkening glower. Sudden; "Why are you so far away." Her dubious look is bolstered by the tip of Satiet's head towards N'thei, the damp curls dropping forward over her shoulders as she regards the Weyrleader. "Owing us a great deal means little when she is incapable of following through on her debts. Particularly when she's incapable of taking what she wishes when it's rightfully hers." The question then; is Edeline competent? "And confirmation will mean very little when Ysave and Nederan find they lack the necessary stature with the other Lords to push it through. Well, with the exception of our beloved Lord Crom." The humorless smile that /that/ elicits is shared with him, fleeeting for his look to her knees and then his words; she's watching his profile, following the lines of his darkened glower in as sudden of a silence. Then the slosh of liquid being swirled, though not imbibed, precedes her quiet, "Because- because. Because I would make you stay." And they've been down this road before. "Do you need more?" Her full glass is held out, in lieu of not being so far away. And they'll go down this road again. Because it's what they do-- to each other, to themselves. "Staying anyway, and I'll tell you why in a moment. But first." N'thei empties his glass and sets it aside, looks to hers, eyes attached to her fingers for a spell, before he reaches with one hand to close around her hand and press the glass back toward her. He's not drinking it, not yet. "Need something from you." Something that has nothing to do with his other hand curving across her knee, the reach of his arms toward Satiet enough to draw him along the couch toward her cloister at the corner. His eyes aren't quite swimming in his head yet, he's not quite dead-drunk, just drunk enough to lay heavy hands on a woman he knows he ought not touch. Not drinking in some people, heightens awareness. For Satiet, she moves slower: her hand drawn back slower, her gaze dropping slower to the hand on her knee, then lifting even slower to the face so near. Even her speech is slower, though not slurred; just more carefully measured as she enunciates each syllable and with her sudden care of speech, unable to completely banish the inevitable bitter in her alto. "Of course. Only two reasons for the Weyrleader to darken my weyr. When he needs something." Recognition of her own pettiness at this point thins her lips, and those pale eyes shift away to study the hearth, the ceiling, the little feminine knickknacks arranged above her hearth. Colder and further away even with the proximity; "Yes?" "No," comes hot on the heels of her bitterness, fast in response to the coldness she clips too late for it to go unnoticed. N'thei's fingers tighten in response, slip from knee to thigh, release from her cup-hand to bracket the fine bones of her jaw and down toward the line of her neck. So many fantasies about her neck. "I want you, that's why I'm here. But while I'm here." And since they don't exactly have the sweetest of pillow-talk, since it's either business or cruelty and business seems less likely to evoke tears... "I need you to tell your brother to stay off his knees around young Edeline. She needs to marry well, and a bootlegging fisherman's son won't win over the Conclave." If there's any way to cool a growing flame, it'd be to throw ice on it, or mention family. Too late does he mention Anvori and his purpose for coming, his hands that travel at opposite ends quick to elicit a betraying response. Cheeks flushed by more reason than alcohol not consumed and hot baths uncompleted, tellingly along the path of his finger to her jaw. Legs parted slightly at the knees, involutarily, the effect of which travels along the simple lines of the towel, threatening looseness just above her chest. Her breath catches to maintain a crumbling resolve, and then he speaks. And she finds no need to strive so hard anymore. Or any need to practice any kind of think-before-you-speak sense in her stunned, "/What/?" He could probably figure it out by her tone, but when has N'thei ever made anything easy? He can't even show up drunk and seduce a woman without adding some unnecessary difficulty. "You heard me." He's juuuuust drunk enough to think about continuing to paw at her despite the sudden change in demeanor, to let his hand fall down from her neck to the knot in that towel, but that's where it lands without ham-handedly disrobing Satiet while something of her stunned tone gets through to him. Now he's just touching her, not /touching/ her, while he raises his eyes for the weary-seeming explanation; "She knows what she needs to do, she needs to marry into a family that can lend their weight to hers. But apparently your brother hit his knees and set her thinking that a common man might appeal to the people. Either you tell him to stop it or I will." Only one of those options is likely to end in bloodshed. She's distracted enough by this idea of her brother on his knees before the future Lady Tillek, that N'thei's pawing doesn't get pushed aside. In fact, him touching or /touching/ her hasn't penetrated the shock, and and whereas maybe five minutes ago, she might be a frigid bitch, now, she's merely non-responsive flesh beneath his hands. "He /proposed/ to her?! Is he crazy? Is he stupid?" Then, a more incredulous, "And she's considering it seriously?" One hit after another, and suddenly Satiet looks like a migraine's about to hit, what with the hand splayed across her face. "I'll-," wait, a sharp look looks up at the man before her, "Do you mean to say you don't think she could take Tillek without a man." Is he crazy? Shrug. Is he stupid? Shrug again. Now, though-- now N'thei divests her of her drink, plucks it from her fingers, rolls so his back is against the couch again, slouches so he can sip and then cradle the glass with his fingers on the upper round of his belly. It's fun when she tries to fight it, but it's not worth it even to him if she's utterly unresponsive, so-sad. He starts to tread lightly to answer Satiet's sharp look, starts with eyes narrowed and brow creased-- but whatever, he'll just wind up saying it anyway. "Yes. She needs someone to push a vote or slit Ysave's neck, whichever works. Your brother's suited to neither, my love, and I don't know if Edeline's actually contemplated marrying him so much as it's made her question her decision to petition Fort or Nerat or whatever direction she's looking these days." Here's what it all distills down to, the very reason he bothers with any of it; "Want my fucking brewhold already." Her immediate, absent, "Should've given him what he wants," is only distracted because her actual thoughts and emotions dwell elsewhere. That she hasn't attempted a deal on N'thei's behalf or vice versa says enough of her own place in this whole woman-man hierarchy, not that it sinks in when there's self-righteous anger beginning to simmer in regards to N'thei's views on Edeline. An anger that then propels her to push off her cushions and roll to straddle, perched, on N'thei's knees. "Don't think she can do it herself. Don't think he's good enough for her?" Oh, so many ways a man could dig himself a hole, or find shoe leather a midnight snack. "I'll tell him. Finish drinking." It's automatic. Finish drinking-- "Undress." N'thei holds the glass in between them by the base, still enough in there to feel it when he gets it down, enough to smell and hear with a slight swirl. Too often, there are no words to answer Satiet, just a look; now it's a cold and humored one, a smirk, languid eyes full of laughter when they snag across her pale gaze. In his world-- in the real world-- she can't do it herself, and he's not... Ah, there's the distinction, said quietly, unforgiving, "Don't think he can help her. Neither powerful nor ruthless enough." To her dubious credit, her hands don't come up to undo the knot of her towel until after he's spoken, and even then there's a measured pause, taking in the distinction of his words compared to the accusations ready on her lips. A throwaway comment: "Don't think he wants her." As if that matters. As if any of it really does. Then, there, perched on his knees, the slender hands rise, the towel and Satiet's feigned chastity comes undone, falling in white terrycloth folds to the floor. "And you?" Cold and stilted in speech, there is, at least, some concession to his way of thinking. "The man who slits Ysave's throat needs not be married to the girl." True to the spirit of the agreement, N'thei finishes the drink. He doesn't even look down, the enjoyment not so much in seeing Satiet naked as it is in knowing it was done at his bidding. They are both so fucked up, aren't they? His thumb hitches along his lower lip to clear away the drop, to hide the grimace, to reach across and smudge over her lips afterward. Gravity; "I would have Ysave's blood on my hands if I thought it would solve this, but this time... This time, my being the villain won't fix it." And that makes his eyes, his very drunk eyes sad to meet Satiet's; tied hands ill-suit him, frustrate him, bring him tipsy and lonely to his Weyrwoman's doorstep. "She needs to marry well. Was this expensive?" The glass. This isn't how they're supposed to be. Ill-suited to inactivity as N'thei might be, the sad, very drunk eyes that pin onto her pale, ice ones rattle Satiet enough so that when her hand lifts, it's not to back hand his cheek to knock some sense. Rather, it's to lean forward and press a palm against his jaw, thumb tracing down to lift that chin further. It's a kind touch, gentle, and out of character. "As long as it's not thrown at my head. I'll work something out." For the impending doom of shattered glass or for the Ysave problem? "Now shut up." It's been a very long day and she hasn't stopped moving since the hatching much much earlier. Ok, so maybe N'thei can shut up long enough to get laid. It's not a common thing, mind you, not something to get used to, but he exhales quiet contentment for her soft fingers, turns his head to press his lips into her palm. Seems a common theme for them, broken glasses, bottles, broken things in general; he drops it off to one side and brushes away the splinters with a flash-movement of his ankle. Then it's all rough kisses and hard fingers all over her freshly cleaned skin. She wasn't hoping to /rest/ was she? If she was, sitting on his knees in a towel smelling of lavender and vanilla would certainly not be the way to go about it, and once unresponsive skin ignites to his touch; thoughts of Edeline, Tillek, her brother all shoved aside for baser needs. She'll take the lead tonight, thanks, trapping N'thei between her legs and knees, and when it's done, there might be aberrant, spare moments of quiet post-coital; spent energies, relieved stresses, and what more to talk of? Just one word, murmured as a command in his ear -- that ear she bites down on the lobe of; "Stay." His fingers tighten across her shoulders at that, the bite, the command, the concept of staying here. N'thei loves the small bones of her, the little pieces so breakable that all fit together to this woman for whom he's stupid and greedy. So he answers quietly, "Mmn." Which theoretically won't bite him in the ass later as having surrendered to coziness in Satiet's weyr. His arms fold heavily around her, his hands down along her spine until-- and he'd deny it to his dying breath-- he's actually just holding her, hugging her. Not trying to smother her. "Be nice and I'll think about it." She can be nice. For a little while. At least not by saying anything at all and allowing that damnable pride of hers to surrender into the silent comfort of being sprawled atop his length, held. Just this once. What will it hurt, right? And perhaps it's a testament to her very long day or just how far their bitter, spiteful, pride-filled bickering has come, that she, and all her tiny bones, can just fall asleep there, dark hair fanned across his chest. Later, she'll need another bath. Later, she'll have to figure out how to reclaim her pride and kick him out. But not now. |
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