Logs:Of Expectations
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| RL Date: 24 April, 2006 |
| Who: R'hin, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Weyrleader Ledges, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 6, Turn 7 (Interval 10) |
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| Your location's current time: 0:28 on day 1, month 6, Turn 57, of the Tenth Pass. It is a summer night. Weyrleader Ledges(#12138RJLs) A flight of steps worn smooth with time lead up to a broad flat area with enough room for a gold and her consort to sprall and lounge. Openings lead to a room used for conferences, the Weyrwoman's private room, and the hatching sands themselves. A round table of well polished hardwood sits in one corner and is surrounded by chairs. Contents: Vesereth Maxeoth Leiventh(#504p) Tubs of oil and meat Obvious exits: SeniorWeyrWoman Bowl Passageway to the Hatching Grounds Council Chamber WeyrLeader Sky Satiet comes up the steps from the bowl. Satiet has arrived. The sprawled figures of various weyrlings and their dragons can be seen here and there around the ledge. Leiventh is one such figure, the bronze curled into such a tight, compact ball that he's even drawn a wing over his eyes to shield the light. R'hin, looking exhausted, is nonetheless awake, seated close to Leiventh but not touching the dragon, legs drawn up to his chest and chin resting on his knees. He's staring, moodily, silent, at Leiventh. Only the noises of the breathing dragons and their mates disturbs the quiet of the area. One of the benefits of having a dragon is that she can do reconnaissance for riders as to the state of draconic minds, particularly a queen, and a few moments after the pale flutter of lavender colors tests each of the dragonets like tinted rays of warm light, Satiet makes her way up the staircase to the Weyrleaders' ledges and pauses at the top. Still dressed in the fine blue gown of before, her studious gaze starts at the greens and blues before making their way across to land finally on Maja. From there, it's only a hop away to find Leiventh and with a upward cock to her brow, his awake rider. Despite the elegance of her outfit, her feet are bare, and in the nominal quiet of skin tiptoeing along stone, the weyrwoman makes her way across to stand just shy of a circle of personal space for R'hin. Her arms, as usual, fold over her chest, expectant for recognition. R'hin doesn't hear the weyrwoman's approach, and indeed, it is only the slight shift of air, the hint of movement out of the corner of his eye that causes him to raise his head, no doubt thinking it's one of the weyrlingmasters come to check up on their charges. "I just got up for a moment--" he begins in a murmur, though the excuse dies on his lips as he sees who it is. Irritation creeps into his expression before he can control it, turning back instead to stare at Leiventh. A long silence follows, then softly: "It seems you were right, lady of the spires." There's a hint of bitterness to the words, bordering on accusation. She is still through the beginning of his excuses and the shift of his expression. The folded arms remain where they are, though the increase of tension along her forearm indicates hand fidgets, the movements of which are obscured by her position. There are no weyrlingmasters here, at the moment, doing their checks, and in his long silence, instead of holding her brilliant gaze steady on his, an imperceptible turn seeks where Vesereth and Maja are once more, returning to Rathin, R'hin, at his accusation. In further silence, she studies him intently, her pale eyes made larger by the outline of dark lashes and kohl, and the shadows of night thrown against her profile. "Were I wrong," Satiet exhales, her seeming careless query carrying only the barest trace of actual voice to them, "Would you have been happier?" The benefit of R'hin's face being turned away means he only has to guard his voice, rather than his expression as well. Of course, it means he misses out on some of the finer nuances of Satiet's question, which is perhaps just as well. "Perhaps," the bronze weyrling admits, voice soft, as if afraid to admit it - or to admit it too loudly, lest Leiventh hear. The dragonet, however, remains fast asleep, not even the faintest twitch to his body, only the soothingly rhythmic breathing motions. Attention focused on Leiventh, he adds a weary concession, "Perhaps not. Doesn't seem there's much choice now, does it? I'm already expected to be a -bronzerider-. I never factored in the expectations. If I had, I think I might've refused your request, Satiet of High Reaches." He slowly turns to face her again, head tipped upwards towards her, his expression wary, tired. "Are you here to gloat?" "No." Flatly spoken, Satiet's bare feet gaps the distance and careful not to disturb any of the sleeping obstacles along her way, her skirts are gathered up a bit, quieting their sisal rustle. As she approaches, the almost inaudible murmur gains strength of voice, "Do expectations really matter to you, Rathin?" There's faint emphasis for that word, slight mocking infused into the full, un-elided name. "R'hin," she adds a half-second later thoughtfully, with a half-lidded look for the bronze at his side. In the span of quiet that ensues at his wary question, she can't help the slight smugness that touches the crinkled corners of her eyes, but instead of overt gloating, a slim hand reaches across to try to trace some of the tired lines that might exist on the new weyrlings face. "Would -I-, your weyrwoman, gloat? I don't think that kind of behavior would live up to the expectations of being a -goldrider-." "I am not a person people ought to have high expectations of." R'hin says the words with a hint of facetiousness, but that doesn't make the words any less truth. The flicker of annoyance appears again as she deliberately uses his full name, and the look she gives Leiventh only increases his ire; unexpectedly he surges to his feet, taking half a step sideways, neatly and pointedly blocking Satiet's view of the dragon, putting himself closer to her at the same time. It is an abrupt, fierce protectiveness, at odds with his usual self; a fact that he recognises immediately, to judge by the clench of his jaw. In a deliberate echo of another meeting, with a different sleeping dragon, he reaches for her wrist to stay whatever movement she was about to take, though his anger's controlled enough that the movement is forceful, but not painful. "You push me," he accuses. "You do everything -but- gloat. You forget, Satiet, I know you all too well." He says her name in that pointed, all-too-intimate way. "You're a funny man," Satiet returns coldly, eyeing the hand at her wrist as if his gesture was unexpected, and given her sudden turn in voice, perhaps it was. "You desire no one to have expectations of you, and I'm going to presume that you wonder if he'll have any expectations of you and if it's right, and if life is wrong. And yet, you place expectations on others, how you expect them to act around you, and react to you. I know you too well, R'hin." Stalwart, her chin lifts to meet the taller man's gaze head on, and there's no attempt to look past him to the sleeping dragon; it's in this stand still that she presses her lips thin, breathing in small spurts sent through a slight purse of her lips. "I came," the alto continues unhesitatingly, "To see how you're adjusting this first night." What may be insight slices through to the surface of her thoughts, reaching across the expanse of palpable dark and differentiations in rank. "It's wonderful, horrid, beautiful, unwanted and there's guilt." R'hin's expression hardens as his own words are used against him, his fingers tightening incrementally by way of reaction. "I am coping," he says, roughly, though his expression tells a different story, as does the fact that he's awake when everyone else has surrendered to the peacefulness of sleep. He's meeting her gaze, but with reluctance, the reason visible soon enough: exhaustion, guilt, fear, uncertainty... all of that, and voiced so eloquently aloud by the weyrwoman. He releases her wrist abruptly, as if he can't stand to touch her anymore. "Leave me," he demands, voice a harsh whisper, intent conveyed despite a voice moderated deliberately so as not to wake his fellow weyrlings. The obvious clues are enough for Satiet to discern, keen eyes flicking very deliberately to the other weyrlings, each of the other nine, before returning to R'hin to meet the myriad of emotions reflected in his gaze. Her released wrist gains a cut down of blue eyes, the glittering gaze studying the imprint of tightened fingers that have reddened her pale skin, the arm stayed in mid-air before it thrusts forward to try and grab his elbow. "No," says the weyrwoman just as harshly, "I don't take vested interests in weyrlings. But I said I know you, because we're too alike, Rathin, once of the Beowins. Despite our original intentions for being here." Somehow not sounding smug, though there's a trace of mocking, both for R'hin and turned on herself deprecatingly, the slight goldrider inquires quietly, "Leiventh sleeps well?" Beginning to turn away, simply assuming that his demand will be heeded, R'hin's startled and angry too when Satiet catches his elbow, a low growl emanating unbidden from his throat. He jerks his arm away, but her intent has succeeded; he's still facing her, however reluctantly. Narrowed eyes study the weyrwoman, his posture thrumming with tense anger, fingers of one hand curled into a tight enough ball that his knuckles begin to whiten. The mention of Leiventh - forgotten entirely for a moment - is enough to evince a sharp inhale, the bronze weyrling spinning on a heel to take in the dragon once more, his glance seeming to view the dragon anew. The bronze in question - perhaps sensing the attention or the barely contained anger from his rider - gives a shudder, though lids remain firmly closed. R'hin's breath, held until Leiventh stills into deeper sleep once more, is let out slowly. His voice, when it eventually comes, is controlled: "You presume far too much, weyrwoman." It is the first time he's used that title for her, and it's no coincidence. Still quiet, the typical winter coolness of her voice is all but gone as her one word query lingers in the air, almost, very oddly gentle, "Presume?" At the movement from the young bronze, the fingers at R'hin's elbow tightens reflexively, before she loosens her grip so her thumb caresses in a half arc along his arm. It's meant to be soothing, but after a moment Satiet, looking discomforted, releases him completely and busies that same hand with rearranging her skirts. R'hin's focus remains on Leiventh, as if drawing unconscious strength from the dragons presence. After a short while, he seems to become all too aware of the reliance, and is irritated, ashamed of it, deliberately turning away from the sleeping dragonet. He deliberately avoids Satiet's gaze, instead looking at the other weyrling pairs, voice taut: "You've made your own intentions... ambitions," he corrects adroitly, "Very clear. I have no such wishes. I am not a leader of people." Pale blue eyes eventually drop towards that hand on his elbow, lips very briefly quirking as she finally releases him. "Leiventh knows me well. You do not." The sharpness of the words turns it into an accusation, as if it is her fault another knows him too well, that he is vulnerable in a way he has never been. Honed through turns of girlish political backstabbing to take advantage of vulnerability when the opportunity presents itself, Satiet's instinctual nature towards full-blown spite is clamped down on, visible in the effort of thin lines that crease her otherwise unstressed forehead. "You have no wishes and yet-," the weyrwoman trails off, the dulcet words that would be lingering in the silence that ensues. They're finally draw to conclusion by a faint smile that curls one lip corner and given life by her silken voice once more, "You assented to stand after such intentions were made clearer. /I/ never said you were a leader of people." In the next beat, as if her prior words hadn't been spoken, a fluid shift from false charm to natural small talk, she agrees, "Leiventh knows you well. I do not. But Leiventh, will he understand your guilt too, as I may?" It is clear R'hin doesn't like the contradictions of his argument, however weak, pointed out, jaw clenched. He makes a save in the only way he can, a very rare choice: by offering truth, or some version thereof. "I thought I had more time." A smile is forced along with it, one to match her own, deliberately. "You didn't think it was by the power of your charm and beauty, did you?" The smile, like his voice, turns mocking, stronger now that he's rallying; even his posture eases up, tenseness fading away underneath that familiar, contemptuous mask. "Do you wish me to become your confidant, lady of the spires? I am not that taken that I would fall to your whims, however talented a lie you may be," the odd phrasing is deliberate, to emphasise the double entendre. It comes and goes, Satiet's ice princess status, the doe-eyes and the flushed shock at ill-veiled sexual innuendos. Perhaps it's the early departure of her 'imaginary' weyrmate, the excitement of the night, or more likely yet, an early evening of imbibing that's left her more uninhibited as a few forward steps and the scent brought by even closer proximity betray; uninhibited, at least in the type of presence she'd like to exude. In any case, she doesn't flush, or cast the irritated look of a prude onto the former trader for either innuendo or his mocking flirtation, instead favoring him with the glassy clarity of her glittering blue eyes and simple words, "You intrigue me. No," she clarifies, a dry look without the smile forming in the faint downward pull of muscles on her face for the honesty about to be spoke. "Your strength, your defenses. They're attractive, but I fear it'll be your downfall. Don't fall in wait at my whims, R'hin, a man who postures is abhorrent." R'hin, though denied the pleasure of imbibing, has his own impediments on the guard he usually keeps up: the long day, the exhaustion and heat of the sands, the shock of a world turned upside down by the creature that lies sleeping at his feet, innocent, helpless and, for now, utterly dependant on him. "I posture often; it is what I do." The plain words are augmented by just a hint of amusement. He steps close, into her personal space, reaching for the fingers of her right hand. If she doesn't pull away, he bends to brush lips against her fingers, playing the consummate gentleman. "Your attention and concern, though misplaced, are nonetheless welcome." The formality of his words serve to provide an eloquent lie spoken on a tongue too glib to falter in the slightest. Satiet's brow draws together, and huffing faintly, the sound of irritation is accompanied with a toss of her silky curls. "I don't know why I bother with concern. I hope you learn to co-exist, at least, with Leiventh. Like you said," she imparts, though her eyes turn raptly towards the fingers brushed to his lips before jerking away, "He knows you best." "You are concerned that your demand will end in death, thus you may feel the need for guilt." R'hin's words are intoned with the gravity that only honesty bears. Quietly, murmured, self-deprecating: "I fear you may be right to be concerned." It's soft enough that perhaps he meant for her not to hear, despite her proximity. Unsurprisingly, the bronze weyrling is looking at Leiventh, mouth twisted, eyes fixed. Without looking in the weyrwoman's direction, he says, "I shall hold you to your debt to me, lady of the spires. A question to be answered." Her poised intent to leave goes on hold as he does speak, his quiet words penetrating the thin veneer of frustration that's settled in the tense hold of Satiet's shoulders. Her understanding of his last, somewhat cryptic comment results in the further stiffening of her diminutive frame. "You would waste such a favor now?" "No," R'hin counters, softly. "Not yet. I wished only to remind you, Satiet of High Reaches, that you owe me." A faint smile creeps across his features, though his gaze is still fixed on Leiventh. Satiet's only response is the rustle of her skirts as she makes her barefooted way back across the obstacle course of dragons and their new riders, towards the stairs. There, silhouetted by the moon's light above, it's clear her head turns but with the shadows that play on her face, her expression is inscrutable -- her lips may even be moving in quiet words that don't reach. Instead, a wash of warmth cascades in the periphery of Leiventh's slumbering mind to bolster and cradle, if only for a moment before it fades out naturally. R'hin remains still even as Satiet departs, and only after a while does he sink down to resume his vigil at Leiventh's side, not yet ready to succumb to sleep. Only the slight, puzzled frown and the relaxed posture indicates any awareness of Satiet's ministrations. |
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