Logs:Satiet Comes to N'thei's Weyr
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| RL Date: 31 August, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After Rielsath's flight |
| Where: Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 8, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| N'thei's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#412Rs) Rank certainly has its privileges; among them are amply appointed apartments. Two chambers connect to form a large weyr, the outer cavern larger and better decorated. Here are impersonal furnishings: a seating arrangement of sofa and chairs in front of a large, tiled fireplace with a blue-and-black rug before it; an antique-looking desk, dinged and dented in a few places but polished and well-kept for its obvious age; a tall cupboard with tack-hooks beside it, gear for dragonriding neatly arranged inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendor for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside. The inner weyr, a sleeping cavern and a bathtub, is smaller and cozier and less ostentatious. The furniture is sturdy but plain, bed and wardrobe and nightstand. A folding screen half-shields the sunken bathtub, usually with a towel slung over it and soap and wash rags within reach. The relics of a man's life are found here and there, large boots often kicked off carelessly in front of the smaller inner hearth, a rumpled tunic left where it fell, shaving kit by a washbasin. For her first visit to N'thei's quarters, remarkably little has been moved. She hasn't touched anything and hasn't disturbed the general peace of the Weyrleader's weyr. But it's unlikely she hasn't inspected her surroundings, Teonath, for once, being gracious (or just livid enough) to keep distant tabs on whether Wyaeth's return is imminent. Cheater. Her footfalls and the light rose-lavender scent of her perfume permeate past the hung tapestries as far as the inner weyr, a slight handprint inpressing against the bed's sheets, her finger prints blurred in a trail along the sunken bath's side, a shaver lifted and then placed back exactly as it was before; all signs, however subtle, of an intruder. But in the end, before N'thei returns, long after Rielsath's been caught with the afternoon sunlight still hung high above the Reaches, Satiet's taken a seat, opting for a sunken sofa that faces the fireplace, and waits. Her legs cross and uncross at random intervals, and her hands play about the loose ends of her blue tunic. With only the remnant touch of flushed anger coloring them, pale cheeks and general composure have been attained. No shame from Wyaeth in reporting they've gone somewhere innocuous, Benden Hold, gambling, drinking, nothing unusual. He's long-since forgotten he was supposed to be repentant, and his arrival back at /his/ Weyr is as brassy and possessive as usual, a mental tally of foreign dragons-- just Malsaeth? just a flicker of distaste at an intruder bronze-- taken before he thumps down on his ledge. In a moment, N'thei comes in, jacket tossed carelessly over the back of the nearest chair, gloves slung over the table, steps brought to a sudden halt. "What do you want." Satiet. In his weyr. His spine straightens, his shoulders square, his eyes narrow; this is out-of-bounds. He might report, but Teonath doesn't sound like she's listening to much, just keeping her cold little tabs of where he is exactly and when he returns, the senior queen shuts him out completely and conveys to the waiting weyrwoman who reclines that much more, makes herself even more at home, slings a possessive arm over the back of the couch. To his question is a cool, even, "You've decorated differently." The slung arm drops, presses into the seat by her, and the sidelong profile she slants N'thei turn her chin upward in a quizzical invitation of him to his own weyr. "Would you like to take a seat, N'thei?" "No." Absolutely no other answer would have sufficed. N'thei hangs a look from that profile, the grind of teeth visibly distorting the shape of his jaw while he hastily searches for an appropriate reaction, sifting through a repertoire until he comes up with unimpressed. The performance isn't quite up-to-par, and he seems stilted and off-balance. "What do you want," he repeats with out-of-synch sternness, bent on going about his nightly routine unfettered by her presence. He kneels to untie his boots, straightens to heel-to-toe out of them, gives Satiet time to justify this intrusion. Amused at his annoyance, she catches sight of the distortion of his jaw and the hasty retrieval of something more suitable that fails. And she sees that it fails; it's in the glitter of her pale eyes as they linger far too long on the unimpressed lines of N'thei's face. Throughout his boot-removal ritual, she waits some more. Satiet's been waiting a while, a little more won't hurt. While she waits, she's not still, moving to the edge of the couch and resting her arms on her knees, leaned forward and watching his suddenly unbooted feet. Her, "You have nice feet," and, "We need to talk," meld together in quick breathless succession. Because they've proven to be so good at it, the talking thing. Again; "No." But this time there's more to it than just the short, hateful look. "You need to talk. Wait." N'thei picks up his boots and walks off, leaves Satiet sitting on the edge of the couch so he can disappear to the inner weyr; boots clomp to the floor, a little water splashes around, his belt jingles, he takes his time. What it affords him, aside from scrubbing his face and losing about ten pounds of clothes by way of socks and over-tunic and belt and all, is a moment to align his mood and catch his mental balance. Eventually, in the entrance from inner weyr to outer weyr; "Talk." Throughout, she waits some more. She's good at waiting apparently, for when he returns, she's still sitting in the same spot she was. Unmoved. Except she has; while he's disrobing, cleaning, and composing himself, Satiet's head tilts to one side, ear cocked to listen to what N'thei does behind those walls and to when his footsteps draw near. "I," she concedes, "Need to talk." But for all her request to talk and the fact it's driven her to darken his weyr, inspected his things, made herself at home, she fumbles. Her lips twitch from one side to the other, then press flat against each other and finally she stands, unable to sit while he looms behind her. Her slender jaw works, and behind the couch her hand works itself from fist to flat against her leg. Finally, she manages a halting, "Don't let that happen again." Pause. "Please," is tacked on abruptly. N'thei's all set to knuckle-up there between again and please, that warning look slimming his eyes and raising his chin, so that he actually exhales relief after Satiet's simple addition, oh-good. "It won't," but his voice sounds too small for his own satisfaction, and it's only when he's not watching her fidget that he repeats with cold certainty, "It won't." He should let it go at that, definitely shouldn't be walking across the room to lay hands on the back of the couch, just where she sat a moment ago-- "Pride?" His movements are tracked, her pale eyes falling to his hands on the back of the chair, and there Satiet's attention remains. Embarrassed? For the request she's made, for the please expelled from her lips, for the short answer he's granted? In whatever emotion it is, her cheeks suffuse with color again and her chin slowly climbs back up, forced to look up at her Weyrleader. Distracted; "What? Pride?" "Yours. Teonath's." N'thei's frustrated that he has to explain the question, nothing new, and he takes it out with his fingernails biting the upholstery. He's a breath away from the look-at-me command when she obliges on her own, when gray eyes find blue ones. "Don't let it happen again because it looks bad? We didn't have this conversation when he chased Vrianth, why Rielsath?" What he wants, what the drawn brows and angry fingers and filed teeth want is for it to be /personal/, but he's masochistic enough to do his own disillusioning. Few people get under her skin as quickly and like N'thei does; and possibly vice versa. But the drill of his questions and the accusation of pride finally sinks in for Satiet - the color of embarrassed pink flares darker, angered. Before she can help it, she expels out: "We didn't have this conversation when he chased Vrianth because I controlled myself and held my tongue so you and Wyaeth could do as you please. Because he's a male dragon like any other even if he has the misfortune to be the senior queen's mate. And I'm stupid to have come to tell you this now. If it weren't for-." The easy answer there, but too late, and withdrawing again, a clenched hand attempting to reign in her temper, she lies, "Teonath's. It's Teonath's pride." "You're a liar." At first, it's just disappointed, it's him convincing himself that she's covering up. But the longer she goes on, the madder N'thei gets, until she's blaming it on Teonath and he's bearing down on her, coming around the couch with his hands to take her shoulders as if he would shake her like an errant child. "It's not Teonath's pride," just short of yelling at her, not loud enough for the sound to get out of these walls. "It's yours, it's your pride and your envy. You won't be-- you fucking can't be-- and you hate that someone else is. Don't come here and lie to me and chastise me and pretend you're untouchable." There's so much she might say no, the angry red and the screwed up pucker of her face not exactly Satiet at her prettiest. But it conveys all the muddled thoughts of what she might voice of her pride, her envy, her jealous, and desires, and ultimately fails to. A ridiculous little laugh escapes when his hands come bearing down on her shoulders, and a hand flies up to stifle it, to swallow it back. Her response is hardly even-toned, with an edge of amused hysteria at the fringes, "You're touching me now. Don't stop." - "Please." N'thei does shake her, one furious rattle while she's laughing, one clamp of his fingers over her shoulders, one second when he'd like to snap her pretty head off. "What do you want, Satiet? What! You want me to beat you? Fuck you? Throw you out? Why are you here!" What he does, whatever her answer, is kiss her-- tenderless and angry and still clenching her shoulders like he's gotten oblivious to the fineness of the bones beneath his fingers. And, while kissing, push and shove and angle her toward the exit, shuffling her steps backward. Not so fine as to snap or break, but likely will bruise, Satiet is not so easily manhandled out of his weyr; after all, this is her first visit, there's so much more to see and disturb. Her feet dig in, unwilling to go just yet, and to brace herself for the anger behind his not long-lived kiss as she pulls her lips free. "I want you to-. I- I like you, you idiot. I respect you, you moron. I hate how you think I'm always lying to you." Of course, the insults are all pet names, adoring, really. "Just- just don't let it happen again and I won't bother to come and interrupt your damn privacy again." Her thrown up arms probably aren't strong enough to push away his hands at her shoulders, but she's ready to go now, stumbling backwards a few steps with the force of his push and angling her out. "Then why are you so--" Cold. Hateful. Inclined to laugh at the worst possible moment for a man's pride. "I like you. I respect you," he echoes, frustrated. "I want you, Satiet. It's killing me, wanting you. I'm fucking women I've got no business fucking because I want you to tell me not to, and you /won't/." N'thei bats away her hands carelessly, kisses her cheeks and chin and forehead stupidly, then secures his fingers around her upper arm just above her elbow to push her into the tunnel. "Go away. I'll come to you, it's better, and we won't... this." His turn to search for scraps of self-control. Shoved, it's too easy really, despite her athleticism, she's not a very big person and when he shoves and she's willing, she's down that tunnel. Shadowed just outside the entrance into his weyr, she turns and watches his turn. The anger is contained n the thin press of her lines and the narrowing of her eyes, for when she speaks, it's quiet again, a little hoarse for the yelling she's unused to doing. "Then don't. I don't want you to. I want you to come tonight. I... But," concludes Satiet instead of her various wants, resigned to the situation and fate they've made for themselves, "You won't be happy." Then steps, walking away back to her weyr and bottle. The bottle is a much easier and well-known friend than dealing with N'thei. She... But. That's when N'thei turns his back and goes into his weyr to figure out everything Satiet's touched; he doesn't actually have to hear her last words to guess at them and know they're true. |
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