Logs:Mentoring Rascela
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| RL Date: 5 November, 2008 |
| Who: Rascela, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Satiet mentors (???) Rascela. |
| Where: Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 2, Turn 18 (Interval 10) |
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| Just after dinner, a request is made of Uanth by the dulcet, raspy tones of High Reaches' senior queen that's backdropped by an image of the Reachian dragon infirmary: « If Rascela is presentable, » and there's the faintest, mocking stress on that final word, « Satiet would like to meet her. » And should Rascela not be presentable? Completely unacceptable; it swirls in the remnant traces of an oppressive desert wind in Uanth's mind. Waiting in the infirmary is Satiet, conversation with the dragonhealer on duty keeping her preoccupied, though periodically her pale glance shifts to the entrance. The answer comes in a cool mist, « My Lady is suitably presentable, » if only to his mind. A wooden creaking follows, the fantastical, distorted trees of his mindscape seeming to shift. Protective. Scarce moments later, and an unhurried Rascela makes her appearance, hands jammed in her pockets and head up. She stops some feet away, though not so far that she has to raise her voice to be heard. "Weyrwoman." Beat. "Y'wanted to see me." No question; just a flat statement of facts. No sign of the brown, but he might well be just out of sight right now. Satiet is mid-sentence when Rascela chooses to arrive, and though the ivory-complected cheeks rose faintly and her parted lips pause at the interruption, she regains her composure in the next beat, completes her thought and imparts a gracious, if tiny nod to the dragonhealer before turning. Down the slim length of her nose coupled with the lift of her chin, pale eyes gaze upon the brownriding weyrling for a measuring moment. Then, "Rascela. Settling in comfortably, are you?" Impassively, the young woman stands there, evidently accustomed to such appraisals. At least she refrains from folding her arms over her chest; not that keeping her hands in her pockets is that much better. "Reckon so," Raz answers plainly, a slow blink being given and then a slight uplifting of her head. She says nothing further, settling into an expectant silence while she awaits the answer to the unspoken question: what was she summoned for? Satiet doesn't let the silence linger too long, certainly not long enough for it to be uncomfortable on either side, and whether she recognizes the unspoken question the weyrling might have is uncertain for she merely tips her head to one side and begins to take steps away from the dragonhealer towards the other side of the room where a blue dragon convalesces with his wing propped up with some doohickey that drops from the ceiling. It's far enough that should Rascela wish to hear or be heard, she'll have to follow or yell. "Where are you from, Rascela?" comes the low-pitched question shortly after Satiet's arrived at the blue's side. Follow, it is. She just isn't feeling up to bellowing. Rascela follows, boots barely making a sound on the ground while she does so. Once close enough (again) for conversation, she answers, "Fort Weyr. All m'family's from there." Shoulders lift then drop, heavily. There you have it. A sidelong look is given to the convalescing blue, then off to another side, studying something there before her gaze re-centers on the Weyrwoman. Certainly too short to reach up as high as the blue's suspended wing, Satiet nonetheless focuses her visual attention on it, the pale, ice eyes traveling the length of the spars to the forestay tip down the sheath of spider-veined wings. Despite her focus elsewhere, the cool alto lacks distraction in the query-lilting observation, "You find no merits in talking more than absolutely necessary, do you?" Not even a beat after, no time for a response from Rascela or speaking over her if she must, "What do you see up there." Taking the question as more of an observation, there's only a grunt -- no need to speak over her. The latter is what Rascela responds to, though with a perplexed -- for her -- "A blue's wing, rigged up." A chin even jerks up toward it, as if further illustration is needed A closer look is given to that wing, as if to determine what might be the matter with it, and that results in her going silent again. There is, however, a quizzical look to Satiet, as if looking at the woman might yield some further answers. Though she can't quite touch, she reaches anyway, a slim finger extending to brush the air underneath the spars where the finger joint looks swollen. "You were a hunter?" Unlike before, this question coincides with a glance over her shoulder, Satiet's arm falling slowly to come rest on her hip. "A butcher?" With a greater arm length, Rascela reaches up to not-quite-touch; more to indicate that she sees what the goldrider is pointing out. Rascela answers, "Yeah. Was taught how t'kill, t'skin, and t'butcher," as if it would be illogical to know one part and not the others. "Da knew how t'make good jerky. Showed me how t'do that, too." "Flight," explains the weyrwoman, almost as if Rascela hadn't responded and as if the brownrider cares what's put the blue dragon into such a get up. "He overextended himself, pulled a muscle, and then both rider and dragon failed to report their injury to their wingleader thus exacerbating the situation. He'll be here for another week before being released to physical therapy." A hand lifts towards the brownrider's arm, placing itself just beneath Rascela's elbow. "So, why are you here?" "Hnh." Her thoughts on the matter, articulate as ever. Seems she's listening, though; she just has nothing to say in particular. The injury is studied, her inscrutable gaze taking in all the details. Rascela replies to the last with two parts, "L'sen asked me t'stand and I went," the obvious detail of Impression is omitted, suggested only an absent adjustment of her knot, "you asked me t'come here and I came." For a woman who utilizes words or the lack thereof as a large portion of her arsenal, Rascela's lack of verbal responses takes the sting out of much of Satiet's inflections and with such a simple reasoning presented, the weyrwoman has little choice but to look to the brownrider flatly. Silent. "I wish my life were so easy. The next time we meet, my erstwhile mentee, I'd appreciate it if you gave more thought as to what you expect as a dragonrider. Particularly during the Interval." "I answer what I'm asked; don't always do what I'm told," Rascela replies without much inflection, the rise-fall of her shoulders echoing the simplicity of her words. The look on the Weyrwoman lingers a beat, then there's a liquid blink and her attention drifts elsewhere. "If you're wantin' to know why I accepted or what I want," this with a look back up to that swollen joint, "then that's different." 'Then tell me,' says the lift of Satiet's fine brows and the hand that rests more firmly at her hip. It's her turn to be taciturn. With a faint noise, Rascela lowers her head. Thinking or otherwise composing her thoughts. Finally: "Once in a lifetime chance, couldn't turn it down. Get away from huntin' for a while. Da wasn't happy, but he wasn't happy most days anyway; figured he might get over it. Don't think he has." Calloused fingers dig through her cropped hair, her expression unmoving. "Never figured on a dragon that likes stories. This stuff," a curt gesture highlights the infirmary, "is interestin'. Just don't seem like much t'do, bein' in an Interval and all." "You like telling stories?" Latching onto that, Satiet's groomed brows drop a fraction, appeased for now with Rascela's response, though she doesn't quite address it directly. "Uanth enjoys your stories?" As for 'this stuff', the slight woman turns a cheek upward to the blue's wing, a sidelong glance pinned to the swollen joint, then back to the brownrider with a head tip of interest. "I don't," she clarifies, "Uanth does. He's always tellin' somethin'. Asks me to write 'em down." Rascela's silent for a moment, then adds, "Sometimes, he has me draw things. The stuff in his head, mostly; lots of, uh. Plants. Animals." One shoulder lifts in a lopsided shrug, "Better artist than a writer, t'be fair, but I'm workin' on it." It's funny how Satiet just skips ahead. Or rather, skips around. From Uanth and Rascela's relationship, to stories and now drawings. Then back to another topic, whereupon her pale eyes drop from the wing to turn upon the brownrider. "Do you miss your life?" And she's silent -- moreso than usual, anyway -- before slowly giving a single shake of her head. "Ain't dead yet, so there's nothin' t'miss." But that's not the point Satiet's getting at, so Rascela, grudgingly, relents, "Don't miss bein' treated like a mistake. Miss the huntin' part, but aside from that-" the trailing off implies there's nothing left. There's piqued interest for what Rascela says, though Satiet elects not to pursue it other than the faint throw of her lashes. "Can still hunt as a dragonrider. Even without your dragon," notes the weyrwoman, her porcelain features finally shaping into a crooked smirk that sets aglitter her pale eyes. "My weyrmate once taught me how to shoot an arrow." And she'll leave it at that, with a little, self-amused drop of her chin to punctuate her brief anecdote. "Once Uanth is older, with the Interval around...?" Lifted lashes and quirked lips beg Rascela to connect the dots of that trailing statement on her own. "Grand-da taught me the crossbow," she explains, either not catching that amusement or else translating it differently. "Da taught me proper bows. Reckon I'm handy with either." To the former and latter thoughts, Raz cobbles together, "Reckon I could do that. Hunt again. Just never figured on that bein' a rider's job." If there are dots she's missing, the young woman is oblivious or uncaring. "Crossbow," is Satiet's immediate, agreeable response. That's what she knows at any rate, not that the proper terms matter to her. "Reckon you could do anything you'd like to." There's only the slightest mocking there in the twisted twang of the goldrider's accent in response. Tacked on, with a telling glance upwards to the errant blue with his injured wing, "Within the natural order of things of course. Next time. Feel free to call me Satiet, Rascela." The mocking is blithely disregarded -- or, perhaps, doesn't sink in -- and Raz simply nods. "Satiet," is repeated, but ultimately discarded for, "Prefer Weyrwoman, if you don't mind." First name basis? It seems a bit unsettling for her. A hand lifts, dragging across the back of her neck, the talk of what riders can do evidently being 'done' as far as she's concerned. With a turn of her cheek and a tepidly crooked smile, Satiet spares the slightest nod to convey her, 'if you wish.' Aloud, "If you'd like to learn some more facets of dragonhealing, one of your weyrlingmasters, Leova, has been training since prior to her Impression." And with the offer made, not only is the talk of what riders can do 'done', but this entire encounter as the weyrwoman looks beyond the injured blue towards a brown at the far end of the cavern, her shifting attention departing the weyrling quite decidedly. "A'right." It's appreciative, thus eschewing the need for the words 'thank you'. And with the Weyrwoman's attention moving away, Rascela's moves momentarily inward. There's a tip of her head toward the woman, but nothing further is articulated -- everything else being ingested, she needs time to digest, to ruminate. Shortly thereafter, she heads out with quiet purposefulness. |
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