Logs:Mutual Displeasure
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| RL Date: 10 October, 2015 |
| Who: Aughan, Irianke |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: There is a lot to be displeased about. |
| Where: Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 13, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ienavi/Mentions, Jo/Mentions, Keysi/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions, R'hin/Mentions |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
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| The only warning given is from Crom's watchrider, a wordless report that she bears Crom's Lord to visit, a quiver of wary anticipation and discomfort carried with it... she does not like this man. It's not a lot of time, but it's better than none at all: Niahvth will know, certainly, when the little green arrives at the Weyr, and no doubt anticipate the sound of footfalls outside her weyr as the Lord Holder makes his way to her sanctum. He's not soft-footed, but if he's angry, he's not showing that either, not yet. This is not a wholly unexpected visit, especially as she cannot visit him, but the timing is less than ideal. Irianke is not in her weyr when he arrives. She does not arrive for moments later, allowing him full, unfettered access to her weyr, her belongings, the pretty, fragile and not so fragile knick knacks that decorate her surfaces of the public chamber, and that single, decorative wooden sword hung along her wall as people enter, sheathed currently. Her weyr is spotless, with shaded lanterns and half-spent candles everywhere in any recess that will hold them. The hearth is lit low. There is a thicker curtain hung between the living area and the sleeping area, a tapestry woven in the colors of an Igen desert sunrise. It is quiet. Crom's Lord enters the Weyr without hesitating at the entrance-- and without calling out in greeting. That the place is quiet, and so obviously unoccupied at this particular moment does not, naturally, escape his notice. He's not a curious man, however, not evidently inclined to take this opportunity to paw his way through her knick knacks (or her underwear drawer). Instead, he crosses to the bar, examining the bottles on hand before selecting one (wine; unopened), opening it, and pouring himself a measure. Indeed, he seems quite at home. Irianke takes her time in returning; whether she's actually busy or not is a secondary matter to the primary objective of keeping him waiting. "Your lady wife," she says, as she enters, before she sees him, and fully assuming he is there among her things, "Just turned thirty-nine turns a few days ago. I forgot to send a gift." The goldrider's face is pristine through the wonders of make up, and the dark kohl about her eyes is shaped in a particularly striking way today. Riding leathers, sleek against her form, are in a soft-dyed maroon with ebony accents. She does not seek him, does not look at him, and does not move towards wherever he's ended up, but instead, seems to be on her way into her bedroom. "It's no matter. We'll forego your gift, this next turn, if we can even keep up with when High Reaches' Weyrwoman's turnday actually is." Aughan doesn't turn to face the goldrider until he's made that remark in full-- and taken a lengthy, careful sip from his glass as well. If that means seeing only her back, as she continues towards the bedroom, that's no issue; he follows, at an easy pace. "Besides, if your Weyr's representation at my wife's turnday celebrations is anything to go by, I don't know that I like your Weyr's gifts." His tone is harder, as he says that; sharper. "Take your issue with Monaco," says Irianke curtly, shedding her riding leathers without a care and stands there, with underwear and chunky gold jewelry decorating her neck and wrists. Finger flicks dance through the garments hung in her wardrobe, pausing to pull one out slightly, only to release it and continue looking. "It wasn't our gift from what I understand." He may not show her anger, but Irianke's emotions, at least anything but sorrow, are written clear in the tense set of her body and the uncharacteristic cold of her voice. "Oh, I will," says Aughan, without skipping a beat, not even in the face of Irianke's coldness. "But I must tell you, I find some peculiar... inconsistencies in the matter. It's well known, for example, that your Wingleader and Monaco's Weyrleader were less than friendly, and I have testimony that suggests it was not M'kris who sought R'hin out. Where is the motive?" He lets that hang, watching the weyrwoman as she changes, but without any suggestion of interest. "It leaves a perplexing picture, does it not? Not quite so cut-and-dry as some might suggest." Irianke finally stops on a light, airy Igen affair, the folds of fabric draped over the hanger in a misshapen way. It's pulled out, the bra is shed, and the breathable fabric is looped around and over her body in seemingly endless twists until it's finally a long skirt that ties about her neck and exposes the entirety of her back, held in place without pins. Only then does she pull the golden torque off her neck, though keeps the bracelets on her wrists. "Dispense with the intrigue and tell me what you think, Aughan." Much as she's dispensed with the formalities of their respective rank. "I don't have the time for this today, unless you mean to make it worth my time to banter." Aughan doesn't seem ill-pleased with this turn of the conversation, one hand clasped behind his back as the other lifts his wine glass towards his mouth. Those cool eyes consider Irianke as she dresses, but only in an idle kind of way. "I think everything is more complicated than it seems. I think people are lying to my investigators. And above all, I think I have a furious wife who would seek vengeance for the mockery made of my Hold's good-will, and that's even before we consider the behaviour of your riders, yesterday, ignoring orders and fighting my guard. Do not think for a moment, Irianke, that Crom tolerates this easily. We are not a stage for your petty squabbles." His voice is lower, now; just this side of dangerous. "What are you threatening me with, Aughan?" Irianke cuts through the political doublespeak and stands there in that sheer, except not anymore because of layers, gown, and looks at the Crom Lord. "Our riders will be dealt with. Such is the autonomy of Holds, Halls, and Weyrs. They do not answer to you, however you think they, or I, should. As for your dear wife. Maybe if you could abase yourself to fuck her like you fuck me, she might be in a better mood." A breath that doesn't even count as a pause. "Well?" "If I were threatening you, my dear woman, you would have no questions," Aughan's not fazed by Irianke's words; if anything, it may even be possible that he's faintly amused, somewhere deep beneath his unrattled expression. "I merely... highlight, shall we say, that whatever losses your Weyr are grieving for, we are not amused. Tread carefully, mm? I wouldn't like to show my cards. Life is so much less interesting, that way. There's something so... tawdry about Weyrs and Holds that cannot get along." "I will take your words under advisement." Irianke's response is, again, curt, but her hands? Her physical, always moving hands are now reaching up to claim his lips against hers, damn the glass he holds. Aughan's glass he lets fall; at least he's drunk enough of the wine within it that it's unlikely to leave too much of a stain. Her hands claim his face; his claim the gown she's only just put on, and not gently. This part of their engagement, their political exchange, requires no words. |
Comments
Edyis (23:26, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
I will take Irianke over Aughan any day. So scary! Ahem. *waves team Irianke flags*
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