Logs:At Least She'd Be a Pretty Corpse
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 18 August, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: After the Gather. |
| When: Day 28, Month 6, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Persie/Mentions |
| Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr Only about a man's height from the ground, this low ledge is wide and flat, reached by a set of timeworn steps that hug the cliff face. As the ledge stretches back away from the head of the stairs, it simultaneously broadens out over the bowl and tunnels into the mountain to become a sort of antechamber, from which a passageway winds back to the Weyrwoman's weyr, the council room, the records room and the hatching sands. A small round table is set in a shallow alcove here, surrounded by four chairs that provide a waiting area for those seeking one of the weyrleaders. Another short flight of stairs leads upward from the tapering end of the ledge to the Weyrleader's quarters, while others lead to the further recessed junior queens' weyrs. While it's hard to get a good look at the lake from here, the view does encompass the majority of the bowl and the comings and goings across its span. Having left the gather hours prior, Satiet emerges from her weyr, still in her gather finery but minus her shoes. Bare feet slap against the stone in her path that aims past the Weyrleader's ledge and towards the council chamber, the small velvet bag she carries swinging idly from her wrist. The last song of her gather night breaks the relative silence of the ledge, the Reachian night markedly silent for revelers still absent from their home. Down in the bowl, Wyaeth's /thump/ of a landing. He touches down only long enough to see N'thei hop off, then a short glide sends him off to the feeding grounds, leaves his rider jogging up the stairs to the shared anteroom. His approach a loud, booted comparison to Satiet's barefooted lightness, steps determined despite the distraction of smudging his thumb against a smear of black along the shoulder of his tunic, of cursing quietly about it. Realizing he's not alone, realizing whose path he's crossed, he comes to an abrupt halt just at the landing. "You're here." The most obvious statement ever. Even if she could ignore Teonath's stirring at Wyaeth's return, or the booted steps that clomp across the stone, or even the quiet cursing, it's hard to miss N'thei in all his stocky height and even harder the greeting he imparts her. An oddly pleasant alto (given givens), her song ends as abruptly as his feet do, and that sharp-pointed face slants quickly sidelong, to the shadows the man throws and traveling up quickly to find his face. "I live here," duh, "It'd be surprising if I weren't here. You'd mourn if I weren't here to bring sunshine to your life." Her jibe falls flat and the thin smile she musters is bland. "Would I." That's not even addressing the question of Satiet referencing herself as sunshine in anyone's life, let alone his. N'thei considers the dull smile more than the words that accompany it, a slate-blank look rested on the little expression, and his steps resume like he'll blow by this encounter painlessly, quickly. But, by the time he raises his eyes to hers, by the time the first inkling of a smile appears, he's made the minute shift in trajectory that would have him bearing down on the goldrider rather than skirting her. "I hurt your feelings today." Mocking shifts reshape her smile, a sentiment cast inward rather than to him, with a hand that falls self-consciously down the side of her dress and the slant of her face away from N'thei. "You would," affirms the weyrwoman, her path easily intercepted being as the council chambers entrance is right by that of his weyr. "Just say you would." There might be a please attached, but it never materializes, except in the slight turn of her chin and large eyes to glance sidelong at the approaching man. Satiet turns her hand about, so the swinging velvet bag arcs and then falls into her palm. "Did you buy yourself a pony?" Beat, then a more natural (for her) smile, "Or a parasol?" It's not exactly an answer, the quiet, "Tell me it matters to you." Even with the look, without the please, that's not a limb onto which N'thei's climbing. Neither pony nor parasol, both dismissed with a silent shake of his head. One hand lands around her upper arm, as though it was necessary to physically stay Satiet's steps, and the other reaches to divest her of her little bag, to do away with the prop. "Didn't think you were telling the truth. Blue." Where his thumb grazes velvet. To wrest away a bag wound about her wrist might be hard, and in reaching for her upper arm, the slender woman flinches, pulling back a little but not quickly or too successfully enough. "A blue pony?" Satiet latches onto that instead, quickly, her misunderstanding deliberate in order to make light of the situation and her physical faux pas of losing composure. "Impressive. A blue pony to match my blue parasol. There was a pink one. At Weaver." A dry half-curve forces itself across her lips. "She might enjoy that. It was beaded and sparkly. It may still be there." N'thei's persistent. Not the most deft-fingered gent though, so getting the cord from around her wrist without watching what he's plucking at delays the intent. "Do you want to talk about what she might enjoy." The flinch, the will to pull away serves only to draw his hand up from the curve of her arm over her shoulder, down from there, flat against her spine between her shoulder blades. "She's simple and willing." And the pull of his lips that meets her trademark smirk finishes the thought-- Satiet is neither. It leaves marks, just the slightest ruddy hint that something was once there, hanging and then pulled off in an indelicate fashion. And once off, the blue velvet bag is weighted by four glass-bead bracelets, various ribbons, and tiny hairpins for tiny girls heavy within. "If it pleases you. It would match her shoes. She'd enjoy it," Satiet's lip purses, her teeth finding her lower lip briefly in faux thought. Then, dryly, "Simple as she might be. Did you enjoy your gather? The wine flowed freely, the music enchanting. Teonath tells me of the dragon chatter of those who remained and lights in the sky. Fireworks." Well, let's hope the velvet is thick enough or the glass is crude enough that being dropped two feet from the end of N'thei's fingers to the floor at his feet won't cause any permanent damage to the contents. Now both empty-handed, he curls his fingers smoothly around hers and the intent should, at this new posture, be clearer; he would have his dance with Satiet, since they're both such assholes they couldn't pull it off at the party proper. "Why are you still talking." Abruptly, she stops. Talking. Moving. Perhaps even breathing. Except to eye her hand being held and suddenly be aware of his hand down her spine, as if she weren't aware before. And then motion resumes, and the reason for her constant stream of talk becomes apparent when liquid forms crescents under her eyes. "You humiliated me," says Satiet, unsteady control attempting to keep her voice devoid of emotion at the very least, "And then you humiliated her. You're an asshole." "Then hate me for it." He'll still dance with her, hated or not, and lean down to collect a pair of kisses across her cheekbones before they're spoiled with tears. "But don't cry about it, won't change anything. The only thing we have between us, you and I, is hurting each other. Why are you still surprised when it happens?" N'thei draws her firmly to against him at that, as unrepentant as he is enamored. Willing, however unwilling her mind might be, her body relents to be drawn in, to move in that unclaimed dance. Her unclaimed hand steals up to travel up his upper arm to rest on his shoulder, hesitantly light and her bare feet inch forward to step atop the ends of his boots. "I will," promises Satiet, though it's a tepid one at best, her pale eyes dropped to instead dampen the burgundy sisal of his vest. It's not long before she's speaking again though. "But don't ever humiliate her again. Not like that. Not in front of me. She- smiles too much." The closest thing to a tender moment the two will probably ever share would have to come smack in the middle of being hateful verbally. Close, head bent low over hers, N'thei acknowledges her tears only a moment when his hand releases hers and his thumb drags across her cheeks to prove they're damp, then to reclaim her fingers with all his apology in a silent exhale felt warm across her hair, forehead. "Only set out to hurt you, she just got in the way." Collateral damage. "Now imagine the look on her face when I tell her you said she smiles too much." Sharpnel cast from a bomb that did well in its purpose; the tears are proof for his win. "She smiles too much," is less a repetition and more the beginning of a thought as yet uncompleted. "And I smile very little." Satiet pulls back, emphasis to her point, dropping her hand from his shoulder and pushing back with all the gentleness that this errant moment of tenderness evokes. "People who smile too much have something to lose. Their smiles. It doesn't work the other way. Because you can never lose a frown. Kiss me, and tomorrow we'll forget of this. Today. Tonight." "You have things to lose, composure and distance and deceit, things I'd take from you. But you're so hard." Even those things he hates about Satiet are said with frustrated reverence. N'thei brings his hand from hers again, fingertips still tear-damp, cups her chin in his palm, and kisses only the corners of her mouth, the very edges of her lips. "Tomorrow we'll forget this if that's what you want. But spend tonight with me." Ah, see; she's not the only one that can omit the 'please.' Her hand that lifts in this continued twilight zone lands gently on N'thei's cheek, her lips parting to entreat more from that corner kiss, wanting more, expecting more, then failing to get more. "Try harder," she murmurs, mocks, the one word just a notch louder than breath. "But not tonight. I would not see her cry even if you might. Asshole." Except, this time, it would be a term of endearment than accusation, even as she pulls back. She'll likely regret and rethink and think again, this moment. However, if she does, it doesn't betray on her once-again collected, if tear-dampened, features. "Good night, sir." She may have it well under wraps, but N'thei's not-quite-there. Hands-- neck-- with the-- want to-- squeezing-- fingers all tense and poised and he grinds out the frustrated admission, "I want to choke you. So. Badly." So he throttles the air impotently in front of her face, gives her a tremendously angry look for being refused, and tears off, muttering about how it probably wouldn't be all that bad, fucking a corpse, aside from it would probably get cold too fast. She watches him storm off, leaning herself against the wall and closing her eyes to let the last of those tensely held silent tears finally release. It takes her a longer time to regain actual composure, after which she bends to lift the discarded little blue velvet and make sure the contents aren't totally ruined. One cracked bracelet; it gets tossed towards the entrance to N'thei's weyr for him to find in the morning, to step on, or trip over, whichever. Her children can wait until tomorrow too, for she retraces her steps back to her weyr and disappears for the night. |
Leave A Comment