Logs:Value
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| RL Date: 15 October, 2008 |
| Who: Satiet, Persie |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| Where: Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 13, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
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| Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr(#364RJs) At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest. Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention. A narrow wooden door leads to the records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind. It is a winter evening, 21:05 of day 9, month 13, turn 17 of Interval 10. For all her reputation for drinking, it's not very often the weyrwoman's actually seen drinking in public other than parties. But in the supposed solace of the council chambers at night, she indulges; a bottle of red wine's been upended into a glass wine holder to breathe while one large, rounded wine glass is held at its base in the curve of her fingers. Dressed in a blue shift dress with a white sisal dressing gown draped over her shoulders, Satiet sits leisurely, a leg lifted to rest on a nearby chair. Though work is near, it's certainly not being looked at, the dark-haired woman's eyes attached to the pastoral tapestry hung along one wall. Rather the opposite in every way, her pale blonde hair ragged and frizzled, her clothes, brightly colored but stained with oil and something more unsavory, Persie comes wandering in with careless footfalls and bright guileless eyes. And if there was one thing, well, not a thing, a person, that she didn't expect in this quiet cavern, it's the presence of the very relaxed and refined Satiet. "Oh," is her greeting. That and a sheepish smile. Her steps come to a halt and she idly tries to rub the dark splotch of oil from her shirt. "Sorry. Evening, ma'am." There's a book tucked under her arm. It's the book that catches Satiet's attention, once she's over the surprise of her quiet being interrupted. Then, in succession: feet, knees, waist, clothes with its stains, and then the other woman's face. Recognition is apparent in the sharp-featured woman's face, pale eyes larger for the dark lashes that throw higher, and the quizzical tilt of -placing- someone, or trying to. Then, "Persie," expels over the rim of her lifted wine glass, a subtle whistle sounding for the air over finely thin crystal. "Do you drink? Would you like some?" Instead of drinking, the goldrider turns the glass around in the curl of her hand, allowing the red liquid to cling to the sides before falling. "I can leave if you were looking for a quiet place to read." A beat. "What are you reading? Am I asking too many questions?" Persie blinks, one of those wide-eyed blinks that is so expected from her. "I do." Drink that is. "I..." She looks to the glass, the bottle, Satiet herself. "I... I could drink, if you'd like me too." Though she herself doesn't seem too terribly eager, there's a smile there. It's uneasy, the curve of her lips, but the smile is there. "What am I..." She blinks again and only after remembers the book under her arm, momentarily forgotten in her surprise at coming upon the Weyrwoman. "It's for a weyrling." Too many questions? If so, she doesn't say it. Absentmindedness clouds Satiet's normally cool intonation and it takes several breaths before she is able to pull her gaze away from the clinging liquid back to the frizzle-haired greenrider standing, waiting. "You don't have to stand." For the briefest moment, there's a tiny smile, just this minute hook up of one lip corner that then disappears. Was it even there? "Here," her leg drops from that chair by her, bare feet falling to the ground, followed soon by her other foot as the knee supporting her chin also falls. In front of that empty seat, the wine glass is placed very carefully with a slight stretch before she falls back into her cushioned seat. "I don't have another glass handy. We'll have to share," spoken naturally, as if she and Persie always share their glasses and conversation. Uncertain still, Persie moves forward anyway, toward that table and chair and the shared glass of wine. She nudges the chair back a bit, further from the goldrider, before she takes a seat, just a little extra space between them. Carefully she sits, now holding the book in front of her, a sheild to hide her stained clothes. "Thank you, ma'am," she answers, though she doesn't take up the glass just yet. She should probably say something else, and she looks like she's trying to think of what that could possibly be. Closer, the wear of a long day rests in the lines along Satiet's forehead and the way in which her head tips into the back of the chair, tired not just languid. But for the moment, the weyrwoman is content to sit in silence. To watch Persie sit and watch her not touch the offered glass of wine and assuming the reason, the weyrwoman leans forward, using the end of her loose white gown to wipe the rim and pour some more wine in. She attempts a smile that falls just shy. "I promise, I'm not sick and bitchiness isn't contagious. Promise." Persie's brows inch upward as Satiet whips the glass's edge. "Oh no no," she hurries. "It's not that. I'm... I feel all grimy. Barracks and all." But in an effort to further the 'friendly' meeting, she reaches for the glass, takes a sip and makes a show of liking it. Mmm! "I didn't mean to interrupt you, ma'am. I didn't know you'd be in here. But, well, thank you. For the wine." Smile. Because, why would Satiet be in the council chambers adjacent to her weyr. But though that thought might be what causes the brief narrowness of the weyrwoman's lashes, it goes uncommented on. "You smile a lot. I think I've said that before. But it's an empty smile." Bereft of a glass to swish or other projects to otherwise occupy her hands, the dark-haired woman resigns herself to lounge, shifting so her legs might drape over the armrest. "Do you drink cause you think I want you to, or do you drink because it's polite? Or do you really want to drink? See," says the currently chattily verbose weyrwoman, with dark lashes preceding the lift of pale eyes that pin to Persie, "That wine's altogether too nice to waste if you don't -want- to be drinking it." When Satiet makes that face for Persie's comment on not expecting the Weyrwoman to be hanging out in this particular room, the greenrider's shyness strengthens. Her chin tipped down, she attempts to explain: "It's just, it's late. And... well, I don't come in here very much. I thought I might now thinking, well, I wouldn't be..." But she wasn't asked to explain and doing so, spilling her thoughts with Satiet's keen eyes looking on, it shrinks Persie's words away and puts another one of those anxious smiles on her face. All the more for the goldrider to note aloud. Persie bites her lips in, hiding them but not the curve that persists on her mouth. Wine. Better topics. "It's very good, ma'am." Which isn't exactly an answer to the questions. Apparently watching Persie either bores Satiet, or there's an instinctive understanding that the longer her pale eyes fixate on the greenrider the more Persie might shrink away, for the goldrider stops looking, again tipping her head back to watch the ceiling. Glossy dark curls hang free over the chair's other armrest and somehow Satiet manages to scrunch, manuever, or whatnot her body into the seat sideways. "Isn't it?" comments the woman rhetorically to the blonde's non-answer. "I think I've had a bottle tonight already. If you want, I'd appreciate it if you finished that off for me. If you'd like to." Her hands fall over her abdomen and with the drop of her lashes, appears to be on the verge of sleep. Except. Except that she continues speaking after that moment's silence. "Why do you smile, Persie?" The curls move, those dark, smooth curls, and the sight of them has Persie lifting a hand to attempt to calm the frizz of a day's work out of her own hair. She runs the comb of her fingers through the blonde strands. Her eyes fall to the table's edge as she does this, but Satiet's request has her looking back at the now-sideways goldrider. A request. Or it might as well be an order to the accomodating assistant weyrlingmaster. She sets her book down, Anatomy of Animals says the cover, and takes up the glass, resting her back against the chair more comfortably but not readily sipping again; that last question is pressing. Her brows furrow faintly. "Why wouldn't I smile?" "But why do you?" is the question she asked first, and now asks again. For a moment, she takes the effort to lift her head, chin tucked into her chest, and gives Persie a baffled look. "What reasons do you have for smiling?" And then the effort becomes too much and her head drops so she's once again studying the ceiling, or the opposite wall - it's hard to tell. "I smile when I'm happy. Triumphant. When I want to make a point. Sometimes. Sometimes, I smile when I must, because crying seems ridiculous. Are you drinking yet?" Without a beat, the goldrider segues from talking of smiles and the reasons for them to the state of her still not empty glass. "I smile when I'm happy," Persie says, some tiny touch of defensiveness in there. Somewhere. It takes her another beat, though, to come up with more reasons. "I smile when someone is nice to me or when I'm thankful for something. Or when something is silly or funny or just fun." Not that the smile is holding on well now, it's faded, her expression growing thoughtful. "When I want someone else to be happy. I just... smile." And there it is again, a bright yet apologetic grin. And, obediently, she lifts her glass to drink. Silent, she's either ignoring Persie or digesting what the other woman says. It's difficult to tell when her head is hanging off the arm's rest, making her face not only upside down but unreadable as well. Instead, for Persie's view, her toes wiggle slightly and a light kick sends both legs swinging in midair. "I-," begins Satiet, who is likely intoxicated. Likely. "I wish I had more reasons to smile. It seems like it should be such an effortless thing to do." Should be, but isn't. Abrupt shifts in attention is the name of the game tonight. "What weyrling is that for?" The wiggling toes, the kick, Persie's ever-present smile quirks a little to the side, though it remains, largely, uncertain. And then fades again with sympathy. "You don't have reasons to smile? You must." She takes another sip of the wine and, as usual, is a beat behind in the bounce of changing subjects. She blinks, considers her glass as if, for a moment, she thinks Satiet means the wine is for a weyrling, but then she remembers the book. "Oh, A'stel. I guess Terluth has been asking about the parts of beasts, all the parts that don't end up on the butcher block." She tips her head toward the book, that's what it's for. "A'stel, A'stel. A'stel." Satiet searches for recollection of the name, the weyrling, and can only come up with a stab in the dark. "Is he the one with the ugly wart on his nose?" Her head lifts once more, cheeks flushed for the upside-downness, and using her elbows braced against the armrest, she maintains this half-sitting up position. "That's not him is it. No, it can't be. It sounds like much too ugly of a description for a name like A'stel." Right? Pale eyes, devoid of their ice, climb quickly to meet Persie's gaze. Right? "I don't know anything about you. Did you ever find a parasol?" Well, except that Persie liked her parasol. Blink blink. Slowly, like she hesitates to point out the mistake, Persie shakes her head at the description of A'stel. Not him, not a wart. But with the Weyrwoman's renewed attention, the way she's using her chair lik a jungle gym, the all-too-human pink in her cheeks, the greenrider's wide-eyed gaze takes on a more hopeful light. "There isn't much to know," she answers. And shakes her head again about the parasol. "No, ma'am." A deep breath is taken, tense as is her smile. "Yours was so lovely. At that gather." Idle musings sends Satiet's lashes lifted to the ceilings briefly, as if the walls might tell her whether she's right or wrong. "You'd think that someone named G'gor would have a wart on his nose because of his name. Guh-gore. Maybe that's who I'm thinking of." But whoever has the wart or not matters very little to the goldrider as she rights herself just a little more, sitting up that much straighter so that her weight doesn't fall solely onto her elbows. Instead, her head leans into the seat's backing, hair pressed against it as her cheek leans into the cushions. "I tell myself I waste my marks on clothing, jewelry, accessories, because I must look the part I must play. But really," she confesses with the smallest, thinnest, mocking smile, "I just like looking pretty. I think most girls do. Even the ones who say they don't care. Do you not like the wine?" Guh-gore. Persie grins again, close to the sort of smile that might preface a giggle. She listens, then, to talk of marks wasted. "I don't think it's a waste. Not if they make you happy. Not if they make you feel..." The greenrider's gaze starts to slip upward, her expression distant, soft and lit, as though she recalls, relives, the way pretty things make her feel. But in that rememberance she finds no adequate way to describe it. And again her thoughts are directed to the wine. "I do." If the Weyrwoman is in a hurry to see the glass emptied, then Persie will take herself a bigger gulp. As she watches Persie, even the glazed over sight of someone more drunk than not can comprehend the succession of emotions behind the greenrider's distant exprssion. Can, perhaps, understand the way long ago, blurred memories can come back to warm the soul, and as Persie looks into the distance, a fleeting glance is cast to the spot on the ceiling the greenrider looks to. Perhaps that spot will provide Satiet insight as well. "... Like someone might see what you think and want to see in a looking glass. That they might see, for a moment, how enchanting, lovely, and together you are. And, that it might be true. That what you see is actually true. And if someone else sees it, then maybe it is." From the spot on the ceiling to Persie, from Persie to her own hands held curled in her lap. "I think I've had too much to drink." Persie's eyes cut to that distant spot and then back to Satiet, watching the woman's expression as she expounds on all that pretty sensation holds. But it makes Persie's pale brows press together, concern there, or a lack of comprehension. With the blonde, it's really a toss up. Her eyes drift back, as though the nondescript spot on the wall really is the source of those beautiful things and those strange, pleasant feelings that tingle and brighten. "Just to feel... free." Her own alternative to Satiet's description. "Free of all the things that are dark or sad. Just to feel like they don't exist." It's wistful, that account, and her voice remains soft when she, again, looks to the Weyrwoman. "I won't tell," she smiles. Satiet's, "Thank you," is low-pitched, apologetic. She /has/ had too much to drink, and while staring at her hands the recognition of her overly chattiness and inability to remain on one subject is fleeting in a moment of introspection. It's enough to make someone cry, and though she'll likely disavow it, the glaze of alcohol shifts into the glaze of suppressed tears. Silence is then broken by, "Did you ever want to be anything else? Imagined your life any different? /Be/ something, someone not you?" If a bird were in attendence it might tip its little head much as Persie does now. And like a bird, she doesn't quite understand what has caused those barely perceptible changes, why she feels the shift of energy from the Weyrwoman, why those famous blue eyes shine like that. Not able to put a finger on it, she instead answers the questions. "I imagine all the time. But I don't know that I ever imagine I'm someone not me. I don't think I could be anyone else. Maybe I just don't know how to imagine that." And then, "Ma'am? Did I say something wrong?" Just in case it's the wine, Persie drinks again deeply. "No. No. Nothing wrong." Attuned to Persie's particular needs, Satiet's quick to deny any wrongdoing on the younger woman's part, her chin jerking back up from staring at her hands, to look to the greenrider. To smile, however unsuccessful that smile might be, for hers is a face unused to smiles not deliberately coached into mocking. "I was to be married when I got Searched. Well, eventually, like so many of us." In the inclusive pronoun, she includes Persie, her head tipping the opposite direction as the blonde woman's. "I used to wait on the docks for him. Sometimes, I wonder what his life is like now." And you? With a head tilt the other way now, dark hair falling past her shoulders, those watery eyes look to Persie quizzically. See, now that smile right there, that might just have been a smile to make someone else happy. But Persie doesn't say that. She just smiles it, like she's caught sight of something promising, something to encourage. And then again, as she listens, it drifts away. "You were in love with him? He was a sailor?" She tilts her head, "I never really... I was supposed to be apprenticed to sing. But I wasn't really there long enough before I was searched." Even the rise and fall of a thin shoulder seems apologetic. And now, more steadily, the wine is disappearing. In fact, she reaches for the bottle with a brow lifted for permission. "I-." She stops short. Did she love him? The question is transparent on intoxicated features, bleary in a vague gaze and soft across sharp cheekbones. "No. But what do girls of sixteen know of love? Then again, what does anyone know of love. It's all made up fantasy. Something to pass winter nights away." If she sees Persie's silent query of permission, she fails to respond, instead studying perfectly groomed nails and immaculately kept smooth, slender hands. "Were you good? At singing, I mean?" The lack of a nod, any tacit sign from Satiet that Persie can indeed have more to drink, slows the greenrider's reach. But it does take the bottle, it does refill the near-empty glass. And she does drink. Without thinking she bends her knee to hook the heel of her boot on the seat, nevermind that it's not the cleanest of boots. "I don't think I knew much of love when I was that young. Crushes, lasting ones, but not... not love." Her mouth twists faintly. "Maybe it is a fantasy." So she drinks again and hurries to swallow so she might answer the Weyrwoman's question with, "I think so. Someone must have thought I was." From hands again to Persie, the pale eyes having lost some of their glimmering dampness, Satiet shifts focus once more. The hands fall against the table, a slight push bringing herself upright once more, though her legs remain dangled over that armrest. "If I loved him, I wouldn't have been in such a hurry to escape," is an afterthought tacked on. "If you sang well, why would you leave something like that? Something, somewhere, where you're valued for what you're good at rather than sheer luck?" "If a dragon didn't want me, I could have gone back," Persie replies, though her brows furrow again. "Or, I figured I could. And if one did, how could I say no to that? And Secath..." Her lips pull to the side, a smile that can't quite form in light of the conversation. She gives a shrug. And then, with her arm wrapped around her leg, pulling it close, she adds, "I guess I hope I can have value anyway." Her head tips, expression sad and quiet. "Do you feel valued? Not just for what you can do but... but who you are?" Perhaps she's sobering up. Or the answer that sits on the tip of her tongue and in the part of her lips is paused just long enough for Satiet to recognize who she speaks with. But it's the look in between the would-be beginning and a glance across Persie's sad, quiet features that would be most telling: a flush of her face, a drop of her lashes to fan dark butterflies across her cheeks, and the unbidden smile, sad and wistful. It all disappears the moment those lashes lift and those bright blue eyes find Persie's face. "And who am I to be valued for other than my rank?" Rhetoric, she seems to expect no answer, a hand lifted to wave it off immediately after it's voiced. "Please, enjoy the wine and good luck with your weyrlings, Persie." Pale brows pull quickly together and Persie blinks again at the Weyrwoman. "I'm sure you are, ma'am. Someone like you... I'm sure you are." Certain, with faith, she nods. "I didn't mean to..." But unsure of what she may have done, she can't think of what she might apologize for, so she just nods again, a tiny bobble of her head. "Thank you, ma'am. For the wine and..." She can only smile one of those sweet, shy smiles. "Thank you." One thanks is enough. Two, in Satiet's present state of mind, induces a wry brand of smile flashed Persie's way. Standing, she adjusts the blue dress and the white dressing gown. She ignores the work on the table and the decanter of wine with its matched glass now in Persie's hand. She's just about to exit, when her moving feet stop just behind the greenrider. "Tell I'daur. Tell him that girls sometime need a little more time to look pretty. To feel good. Tell him I'm asking him to give you the morning off tomorrow. To brush your hair. To bathe. To put on something pretty, make up, and jewelry. To be free." A breath later, humor finds her alto, "If you want." She won't follow up, and unless Persie speaks up to stay her presence, she'll venture back to her weyr, barefoot. The decree has Persie's eyes growing wide and she's about to protest, lips parted with words ready to come as soon as her throat can open. But those words of Satiet's, 'if you want', stay any refusal Persie could have. She closes her mouth and nods, obedient. "Thank you, ma'am." Again. She watches the Werywoman go and only after the pretty clothes and the pretty hair are completely out of sight does she set the pretty glass on the table and settle into to some stretch of silence with her fingertips slowly turning the glass by its stem. The third thank you presses Satiet's lips down, but evokes no other words, and soon the rustle of sisal against cotton and the slap of bare feet find Satiet outside and likely towards her weyr. |
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