The end of thread?
RL Date: 5/16/08
IC Date: 5/26/16
Log thefted from Shanlee. :)
Council Chamber, High Reaches Weyr(#770RIJs$)
This cavern, nearly as large as a dragon weyr, is filled with an oval table, surrounded by chairs, at which meetings are held. The chair at the far end of the table is somewhat larger than the rest, the embroidered seat cushion done a little fancier, but not too much so. In the center of the hardwood table the symbol of High Reaches Weyr has been inlaid in colored stones, gleaming in the light from the glowbaskets hung around the room.
A natural alcove is filled with shelves, all piled high with neatly ordered records of past turns. A short passage leads back to the Weyrleaders' ledge.
At dawn, Nabol expected 'fall, and three Wings swept the area for signs of the leading edge. For two hours, dragons were poised and riders sweated even at altitude in their flying gear. Halfway through the third hour, with barely a breeze to stir the air, a ripple worked from Wyaeth through the other dragons: << It ain't coming. Go home. >> And there was confusion in the bowl, most of it tinged with uncertain relief as the realization settled through the riders. Thread didn't come this time; according to reports from the Starsmiths, only reported a few days ago but not yet proven, it may never come again. This, then, is the 'Reaches first taste of thread-free skies.
After seeing to the sweeps just-in-case, sending F'rint and a handful of others back to Nabol, N'thei swung off toward the council chambers. To the Weyr at large, he was his usual self: proficiently reckless even with nothing to fight. Just before stalking off, though, Shanlee would be the recipient of a secret smile and a mute beckoning to follow toward when she gets the chance. Leaving Wyaeth to find the lake and a soak, he lugs his gear off toward the weyrleaders' ledges, specifically the council chamber.
One corner of her mouth curling upward in response to N’thei’s smile, the weyrsecond affords him a short nod but lags behind somewhat. Being as how her ledge is nowhere near the council chambers, her gear gets dumped alongside a green frisky with built-up tension and no thread to release it on. Kaylith turning a pleading look onto her rider as Wyaeth and the others go off a soak gets a rolling of eyes from her rider, “Oh fine! Go! But leave Zetia and that brown thing that insists on hanging around with it, aye?” Perhaps spoken aloud for the benefit of any lingering nearby. There’s a watch on this stuff! Delayed by this and much shorter strides might have any other jogging to catch up with the weyrleader, not so for Shan who stuffs hands in pockets and trails the larger bronzerider up to the chamber.
Wyaeth's tack is left in a pile just outside his weyr, N'thei's own flying gear is stripped of its outer layer while he strolls around the big table with ungloved fingers grazing the mosaic corners. He waits, his back to the entrance, until there's footfall come within earshot, then; "That will certainly lessen your workload, won't it?" Musing, drawled.
Shanlee adjusts her path around the pile N'thei drops, boots scraping a leisurely pace into the chamber itself. Unseen, slight shoulders lift and fall while her nose wrinkles lightly over his words. The weyrsecond's tone however is dry amusement, "And marks," pointed out. Fingers finally set to loosening closures down the front of her flight jacket and the weyrleader is settled with a short, contemplative look, "Relieved?"
N'thei hangs his jacket over a chair-back, his gloves over the inlaid tiles, loosens the collar of his tunic, the sleeves, finally faces back to Shanlee with a slow but thorough nod. "Takes the spotlight off my shortcomings. --Find out how the rest of the Weyr feels about it. I want to know which ones are a little sad that there will be no more thread to fight." That from the /Weyrleader/, a tone it's taken him more than a Turn to really grow into.
The Weyrleader might be getting himself comfortable. Shanlee? She's taken to folding her arms across her chest and watching him with an easy openness. At his instruction fine brows drift downward, crease together, then smooth out into a you-got-me type expression. She even allows for a short chuckle, "And we'll do what? Surf about the sky flaming fake thread for their benefit?" Now a light snort appears as she answers more seriously, "Only the untried would be 'saddened'," the air quotes audible, "and that only because they firstly, have never been scored," a nod to where the man's own scars lie, "and secondly not had to watch wingmates die or writhing in agony."
Although he might agree, shown in the part shrug, part nod that answers her thoughts, N'thei's resolve stays firm; "Still, ask around, keep an eye out. People will get restless with nothing to do, no purpose, and it will be our job to see that restlessness doesn't become recklessness." Not that he speaks with the voice of experience. Dropping into a chair, reaching for the omnipresent pitcher of water and mug to employ it, he tilts a look back up to Shanlee at that. "What will you do with the Interval?"
Arms unfold, hands spread outward, “As you wish. But if this is truly the end of thread?...” Shanlee’s words cut off whatever else she was about to say, as if for the first time in their rather stormy history, she’s unsure of whether to speak her mind with N’thei or not. Instead she focuses a parched throat on his actions with pitcher and mug, and her attention to his query. Enigmatic, the smile that touches her mouth fleetingly, “Find other ways to pad my income.” Meandering steps take her down to where the Weyrleader now reposes, “And you? If Wyaeth hadn’t caught, or doesn’t the next time. Did you have any plans beyond debauchery and gambling?” amusement takes the edge off any bait that might have looked like.
N'thei takes a drink first, a long one, perhaps unaware that Shanlee would want without taking for herself, and he's wiping his lip with the heel of his hand when when she cuts off. "If this is truly the end of thread-- what?" He hands up the half-full glass in offering, no answer to her last question or the implication behind it except the certainty of his expression; he knows no fear for his position.
She’s that thirsty, that Shanlee gladly accepts the half-glass of water and swallows it down as if Pern were in drought then holds it back out again to N’thei - more? And then there’s that prompt to finish her thought. The glass instead is set back down to the table and pushed with one finger back over to the Weyrleader, her expression turning lightly guarded. “Before thread started falling, before Wyaeth won Teonath…” the light tone slips off as words are carefully put together. With a determined intake of breath, lift of chin and squaring of shoulders, the greenrider puts it out there, “R’hin had plans. Plans for the Weyr, plans that would take us through the interval and make us self-sufficient and not have to rely on tithes as holders memories of ‘fall started to fade.” The weyrsecond falls quiet now, green eyes trained on the bronzerider, gauging his reaction.
There's that name. N'thei's eye twinges a bit in response, the tell finished in a quick blink that resumes his placid expression. He fills the glass again, water splashing the border of the table in his heedlessness, and sets the cup back from himself to imply it into Shanlee's keeping once more. "So tell me about these plans." With his eyes raised, he braces one foot under the table to force the neighbor-chair out with a scrape; "And sit down."
Lips purse lightly for that expected tell of N'thei's then relax as he does. Wryly spoken, "Hoping to grow taller," however, Shan does lean a hip up against the tabletop, even if she doesn't sit just yet. The glass eyed for a moment is taken up, another long swallow, mouth wiped free of clinging droplets and slid back his way. Slowly the dark red head starts to shake from side to side and troubled eyes are lifted, seeking the bronzerider's out to tell of the truth, "I don't know exactly. He never told me. Didn't know he had even had any until thread was falling again. Whatever it was, it must have been good, aye?" Earnestness crosses the fine features, "But what if we -could- be self-sufficient. Take care of our own. Things like Crom? Just wouldn't be an issue would it?" She's leant close enough that a slight reach has one finger drawing patterns with the water spilled as she slips into silence once again. Broken when the redhead ventures, "Satiet? They must have discussed it all?"
N'thei shakes his head at mention of the Weyrwoman, denies the possibility with a simple gesture; he won't ask. The water gives him time for pause, to mull while he drains the cup, while he sets it back down next to the pitcher, empty. "But I agree. We need to be able to take care of ourselves, line our own pockets. The Vijays will start paying us soon, and we'll stockpile at first. --We have a certain set of talents here that I think we need to start exploiting." /Talents,/ such careful connotation.
Shanlee shifts from that hip lean to leaning her rump against the table, hands placing next to her, with fingers curling over its edges. She catches that silent negative gesture from N'thei, and by her very nature has to follow it with, "She still got you whipped?" smirk. Incredulity displays in hiked up brows and a mouth that gapes slightly, "Sorry? Did you just say you're relying on -traders-," edging borrowed distaste into that last word, "to see the Weyr through? The very sort you quite openly spoke of having no use or interest for?" mild challenge set out there. Green eyes narrow down onto him, and then clear into consideration, "You know…you might just have a point there. All those searched from apprenticeships, aye? Not enough to have the halls up in arms but enough to serve our own needs." If she caught the connotation, she's good at acting dumb.
A warning look, gray eyes fixed hard on hers, and N'thei skips the whipped-question entirely; temper, temper. "Don't be coy, Shan, never serves us well. I'm not relying on traders, I'm relying on us. They're just a cog. --We need enterprise. We need to know who has the skills to create, to drive a bargain, to make income out of nothing, and to keep the peace." He tics them off on his fingers, looking up to Shanlee's considering expression with a clear calculation. "We may not be a center of industry, here in the frozen back-of-beyond, but we can make ourselves indispensable in our own way."
A smug grin meets the warning look from N’thei - score. Shan lets him skip over the question; she’d gotten what she’d wanted. Some of those items ticked off are conveniently ignored, or glossed over - whichever you prefer. Instead it’s the last comment that earns the Weyrleader a snort of amusement, “What we going to sell them? Ice?” Then back to selected items off his list with a lift of brow, “Diplomatic guards?” to keep the peace, “’Reaches harpers writing the next bestsellers of Pern, maybe?” Pushing to make the bronzerider provide her with more details of what he has in mind.
N'thei tilts his chin, the effect to pop his neck, then the other side, and he leans back in his chair with a sudden bloom of satisfaction to his smile. "Discretion, my dear girl, we sell discretion. Escorts for tithe trains, dragons to watch over those remote holds, transportation for traders-- an industry that will flourish in thread's absence. Cast a far net, see who falls in. Locally, put a half-dozen pretty girls in the Snowasis, brew our own, watch the marks roll in." All a very pretty way to describe a den of iniquity. "And ice, for you disgustingly honest fools." His grin accuses Shanlee merrily.
Amusement flourishes into a chuckle as Shan pokes holes in his plans. It's her job to do so isn't it? "Firstly, from what I remember from my harper lessons, escorts and watches are a part of our duty, our honor, are they not? Secondly, there's way more than just a half-dozen pretty girls round about these parts that frequent the Snowasis. That is unless you're looking to hire girls who help a man win a hand?" asked in such idle manner, she may be musing out loud. As to N'thei's last, the weyrsecond fits him with a smirk, "Why not just export our women? Heard we're supposed to have ice running through our veins...take bets to see who can last a round or something like that."
"As long as the holders remember their duty and honor, we'll remember ours." N'thei smiles amiably at the reminder, laces his hands behind his head, tips his chair back to a recline so he can look thoughtfully up at the ceiling, less up at Shanlee. "Export them? Why? I want them to come to us. Pretty girls with drinks will go a long way toward loosening a man's pockets, surely you're familiar?"
Crossing one boot over the other at the ankle, Shan affords talk of duty and honor a nod and a begrudgingly muttered, “As history tells us, memory fades.” About as relaxed as she’ll ever be in N’thei’s company his last, almost idle comment, stiffens the petite frame and swings a guarded look over onto him, “Why would I know about how that works,” loosening men’s pockets, “I can’t even play cards. Ask Milani.” About to dig her hole deeper, teeth click shut and her tone takes on the more familiar taunting edge, “Besides. Any man whose pockets I loosen better be spending it on me, not the Weyr.” Arrogant much?
Ask Milani. N'thei's smile comes-and-goes, his own repose uninterrupted while he catches Shanlee's stiffened response to idle musing. "Not saying otherwise, let him ply you with drinks, trinkets, whatever it takes to buy affection. So long as it's bought from us. Don't you see?" With sudden earnestness; "All it takes is a reputation, and we already have that. We just need to capitalize on it."
Shanlee pushes away from the table, and fixes N'thei with a hard look, "-No- man buys my affections, got it?" eyes glitter oddly, "and I won't whore myself for the Weyr either!" Ooooh, touchy. Having turned from the Weyrleader, when she turns back the jaw that had tightened has eased and complacency (however feigned) has set in, "I have my own interests to take care of. What's in it for me?" blunt.
N'thei looks stung. He lowers his hands from behind his head slowly, sets his chair back on all fours with decision, looks up at Shanlee in an attitude of shocked dismay. "Of all people, Shanlee, of all people to put personal greed above the needs of the many." He shakes his head, disappointed, and starts out of his own chair as if the meeting's adjourned itself. "I must have judged wrong, I thought we were doing something for all of us."
And Shanlee’s not buying it for a minute, as told by the cold smirk that touches her mouth, “Don’t even try that bullshit with me N’thei. You never do anything for the good of the whole without some kind of kick-back. Just tell me what it is, what my share is, and we’ll talk business.” Business. The weyrsecond takes a moment to regard her Weyrleader from a flat expression before turning on heel to head back out to her dragon, gear and thoughts.
N'thei, calm; "Shanlee." He doesn't chase her with more than the word. Either she'll turn around and ken, or she'll keep walking. He's staying put, whatever the case.
He’s rewarded with the first. Shanlee turns head over shoulder and plants a singular brow-lifted look from out of a now distant expression onto N’thei. Waiting. Her eyes transmitting the silent query, ‘What?’
Simple, frank-- "Everyone gets paid." And maybe they didn't fight thread today, maybe they never will again, but N'thei tosses his mark purse on to the end of the table closer to Shanlee. "Things are going to have to change," he continues, picking up his coat, his gloves. "But you will still get what you deserve."
While her moral code may be hard to figure, Shan’s not about to pass up marks either. Eyes follow the progress of the purse as it slides and comes to a rest nearer to her. Lips then curve into a line of satisfaction, no remorse as she closes the gap and scoops her takings up, “Everyone does in the end,” get what they deserve, “I only want what’s mine.”
Hard to say if it's accusation or approval when N'thei comments a barely audible, "Mercenary." He flicks a look to the taken money, to the hand that collects them, and he draws a resolute breath to bid them farewell with his teeth filing his lip silently.
The cool smile from Shan in response is accompanied by a tap of two fingers to the temple and a low chuckle followed by, "Nice doing business with you...Sir." And she'll leave N'thei there to mull over his marks, (now hers) as with a sway of hips the Weyrsecond departs with a jaunty, if somewhat bawdy tavern ditty humming under her breath. Foot-loose and fancy-free. Or so she would portray.
IC Date: 5/26/16
Log thefted from Shanlee. :)
Council Chamber, High Reaches Weyr(#770RIJs$)
This cavern, nearly as large as a dragon weyr, is filled with an oval table, surrounded by chairs, at which meetings are held. The chair at the far end of the table is somewhat larger than the rest, the embroidered seat cushion done a little fancier, but not too much so. In the center of the hardwood table the symbol of High Reaches Weyr has been inlaid in colored stones, gleaming in the light from the glowbaskets hung around the room.
A natural alcove is filled with shelves, all piled high with neatly ordered records of past turns. A short passage leads back to the Weyrleaders' ledge.
At dawn, Nabol expected 'fall, and three Wings swept the area for signs of the leading edge. For two hours, dragons were poised and riders sweated even at altitude in their flying gear. Halfway through the third hour, with barely a breeze to stir the air, a ripple worked from Wyaeth through the other dragons: << It ain't coming. Go home. >> And there was confusion in the bowl, most of it tinged with uncertain relief as the realization settled through the riders. Thread didn't come this time; according to reports from the Starsmiths, only reported a few days ago but not yet proven, it may never come again. This, then, is the 'Reaches first taste of thread-free skies.
After seeing to the sweeps just-in-case, sending F'rint and a handful of others back to Nabol, N'thei swung off toward the council chambers. To the Weyr at large, he was his usual self: proficiently reckless even with nothing to fight. Just before stalking off, though, Shanlee would be the recipient of a secret smile and a mute beckoning to follow toward when she gets the chance. Leaving Wyaeth to find the lake and a soak, he lugs his gear off toward the weyrleaders' ledges, specifically the council chamber.
One corner of her mouth curling upward in response to N’thei’s smile, the weyrsecond affords him a short nod but lags behind somewhat. Being as how her ledge is nowhere near the council chambers, her gear gets dumped alongside a green frisky with built-up tension and no thread to release it on. Kaylith turning a pleading look onto her rider as Wyaeth and the others go off a soak gets a rolling of eyes from her rider, “Oh fine! Go! But leave Zetia and that brown thing that insists on hanging around with it, aye?” Perhaps spoken aloud for the benefit of any lingering nearby. There’s a watch on this stuff! Delayed by this and much shorter strides might have any other jogging to catch up with the weyrleader, not so for Shan who stuffs hands in pockets and trails the larger bronzerider up to the chamber.
Wyaeth's tack is left in a pile just outside his weyr, N'thei's own flying gear is stripped of its outer layer while he strolls around the big table with ungloved fingers grazing the mosaic corners. He waits, his back to the entrance, until there's footfall come within earshot, then; "That will certainly lessen your workload, won't it?" Musing, drawled.
Shanlee adjusts her path around the pile N'thei drops, boots scraping a leisurely pace into the chamber itself. Unseen, slight shoulders lift and fall while her nose wrinkles lightly over his words. The weyrsecond's tone however is dry amusement, "And marks," pointed out. Fingers finally set to loosening closures down the front of her flight jacket and the weyrleader is settled with a short, contemplative look, "Relieved?"
N'thei hangs his jacket over a chair-back, his gloves over the inlaid tiles, loosens the collar of his tunic, the sleeves, finally faces back to Shanlee with a slow but thorough nod. "Takes the spotlight off my shortcomings. --Find out how the rest of the Weyr feels about it. I want to know which ones are a little sad that there will be no more thread to fight." That from the /Weyrleader/, a tone it's taken him more than a Turn to really grow into.
The Weyrleader might be getting himself comfortable. Shanlee? She's taken to folding her arms across her chest and watching him with an easy openness. At his instruction fine brows drift downward, crease together, then smooth out into a you-got-me type expression. She even allows for a short chuckle, "And we'll do what? Surf about the sky flaming fake thread for their benefit?" Now a light snort appears as she answers more seriously, "Only the untried would be 'saddened'," the air quotes audible, "and that only because they firstly, have never been scored," a nod to where the man's own scars lie, "and secondly not had to watch wingmates die or writhing in agony."
Although he might agree, shown in the part shrug, part nod that answers her thoughts, N'thei's resolve stays firm; "Still, ask around, keep an eye out. People will get restless with nothing to do, no purpose, and it will be our job to see that restlessness doesn't become recklessness." Not that he speaks with the voice of experience. Dropping into a chair, reaching for the omnipresent pitcher of water and mug to employ it, he tilts a look back up to Shanlee at that. "What will you do with the Interval?"
Arms unfold, hands spread outward, “As you wish. But if this is truly the end of thread?...” Shanlee’s words cut off whatever else she was about to say, as if for the first time in their rather stormy history, she’s unsure of whether to speak her mind with N’thei or not. Instead she focuses a parched throat on his actions with pitcher and mug, and her attention to his query. Enigmatic, the smile that touches her mouth fleetingly, “Find other ways to pad my income.” Meandering steps take her down to where the Weyrleader now reposes, “And you? If Wyaeth hadn’t caught, or doesn’t the next time. Did you have any plans beyond debauchery and gambling?” amusement takes the edge off any bait that might have looked like.
N'thei takes a drink first, a long one, perhaps unaware that Shanlee would want without taking for herself, and he's wiping his lip with the heel of his hand when when she cuts off. "If this is truly the end of thread-- what?" He hands up the half-full glass in offering, no answer to her last question or the implication behind it except the certainty of his expression; he knows no fear for his position.
She’s that thirsty, that Shanlee gladly accepts the half-glass of water and swallows it down as if Pern were in drought then holds it back out again to N’thei - more? And then there’s that prompt to finish her thought. The glass instead is set back down to the table and pushed with one finger back over to the Weyrleader, her expression turning lightly guarded. “Before thread started falling, before Wyaeth won Teonath…” the light tone slips off as words are carefully put together. With a determined intake of breath, lift of chin and squaring of shoulders, the greenrider puts it out there, “R’hin had plans. Plans for the Weyr, plans that would take us through the interval and make us self-sufficient and not have to rely on tithes as holders memories of ‘fall started to fade.” The weyrsecond falls quiet now, green eyes trained on the bronzerider, gauging his reaction.
There's that name. N'thei's eye twinges a bit in response, the tell finished in a quick blink that resumes his placid expression. He fills the glass again, water splashing the border of the table in his heedlessness, and sets the cup back from himself to imply it into Shanlee's keeping once more. "So tell me about these plans." With his eyes raised, he braces one foot under the table to force the neighbor-chair out with a scrape; "And sit down."
Lips purse lightly for that expected tell of N'thei's then relax as he does. Wryly spoken, "Hoping to grow taller," however, Shan does lean a hip up against the tabletop, even if she doesn't sit just yet. The glass eyed for a moment is taken up, another long swallow, mouth wiped free of clinging droplets and slid back his way. Slowly the dark red head starts to shake from side to side and troubled eyes are lifted, seeking the bronzerider's out to tell of the truth, "I don't know exactly. He never told me. Didn't know he had even had any until thread was falling again. Whatever it was, it must have been good, aye?" Earnestness crosses the fine features, "But what if we -could- be self-sufficient. Take care of our own. Things like Crom? Just wouldn't be an issue would it?" She's leant close enough that a slight reach has one finger drawing patterns with the water spilled as she slips into silence once again. Broken when the redhead ventures, "Satiet? They must have discussed it all?"
N'thei shakes his head at mention of the Weyrwoman, denies the possibility with a simple gesture; he won't ask. The water gives him time for pause, to mull while he drains the cup, while he sets it back down next to the pitcher, empty. "But I agree. We need to be able to take care of ourselves, line our own pockets. The Vijays will start paying us soon, and we'll stockpile at first. --We have a certain set of talents here that I think we need to start exploiting." /Talents,/ such careful connotation.
Shanlee shifts from that hip lean to leaning her rump against the table, hands placing next to her, with fingers curling over its edges. She catches that silent negative gesture from N'thei, and by her very nature has to follow it with, "She still got you whipped?" smirk. Incredulity displays in hiked up brows and a mouth that gapes slightly, "Sorry? Did you just say you're relying on -traders-," edging borrowed distaste into that last word, "to see the Weyr through? The very sort you quite openly spoke of having no use or interest for?" mild challenge set out there. Green eyes narrow down onto him, and then clear into consideration, "You know…you might just have a point there. All those searched from apprenticeships, aye? Not enough to have the halls up in arms but enough to serve our own needs." If she caught the connotation, she's good at acting dumb.
A warning look, gray eyes fixed hard on hers, and N'thei skips the whipped-question entirely; temper, temper. "Don't be coy, Shan, never serves us well. I'm not relying on traders, I'm relying on us. They're just a cog. --We need enterprise. We need to know who has the skills to create, to drive a bargain, to make income out of nothing, and to keep the peace." He tics them off on his fingers, looking up to Shanlee's considering expression with a clear calculation. "We may not be a center of industry, here in the frozen back-of-beyond, but we can make ourselves indispensable in our own way."
A smug grin meets the warning look from N’thei - score. Shan lets him skip over the question; she’d gotten what she’d wanted. Some of those items ticked off are conveniently ignored, or glossed over - whichever you prefer. Instead it’s the last comment that earns the Weyrleader a snort of amusement, “What we going to sell them? Ice?” Then back to selected items off his list with a lift of brow, “Diplomatic guards?” to keep the peace, “’Reaches harpers writing the next bestsellers of Pern, maybe?” Pushing to make the bronzerider provide her with more details of what he has in mind.
N'thei tilts his chin, the effect to pop his neck, then the other side, and he leans back in his chair with a sudden bloom of satisfaction to his smile. "Discretion, my dear girl, we sell discretion. Escorts for tithe trains, dragons to watch over those remote holds, transportation for traders-- an industry that will flourish in thread's absence. Cast a far net, see who falls in. Locally, put a half-dozen pretty girls in the Snowasis, brew our own, watch the marks roll in." All a very pretty way to describe a den of iniquity. "And ice, for you disgustingly honest fools." His grin accuses Shanlee merrily.
Amusement flourishes into a chuckle as Shan pokes holes in his plans. It's her job to do so isn't it? "Firstly, from what I remember from my harper lessons, escorts and watches are a part of our duty, our honor, are they not? Secondly, there's way more than just a half-dozen pretty girls round about these parts that frequent the Snowasis. That is unless you're looking to hire girls who help a man win a hand?" asked in such idle manner, she may be musing out loud. As to N'thei's last, the weyrsecond fits him with a smirk, "Why not just export our women? Heard we're supposed to have ice running through our veins...take bets to see who can last a round or something like that."
"As long as the holders remember their duty and honor, we'll remember ours." N'thei smiles amiably at the reminder, laces his hands behind his head, tips his chair back to a recline so he can look thoughtfully up at the ceiling, less up at Shanlee. "Export them? Why? I want them to come to us. Pretty girls with drinks will go a long way toward loosening a man's pockets, surely you're familiar?"
Crossing one boot over the other at the ankle, Shan affords talk of duty and honor a nod and a begrudgingly muttered, “As history tells us, memory fades.” About as relaxed as she’ll ever be in N’thei’s company his last, almost idle comment, stiffens the petite frame and swings a guarded look over onto him, “Why would I know about how that works,” loosening men’s pockets, “I can’t even play cards. Ask Milani.” About to dig her hole deeper, teeth click shut and her tone takes on the more familiar taunting edge, “Besides. Any man whose pockets I loosen better be spending it on me, not the Weyr.” Arrogant much?
Ask Milani. N'thei's smile comes-and-goes, his own repose uninterrupted while he catches Shanlee's stiffened response to idle musing. "Not saying otherwise, let him ply you with drinks, trinkets, whatever it takes to buy affection. So long as it's bought from us. Don't you see?" With sudden earnestness; "All it takes is a reputation, and we already have that. We just need to capitalize on it."
Shanlee pushes away from the table, and fixes N'thei with a hard look, "-No- man buys my affections, got it?" eyes glitter oddly, "and I won't whore myself for the Weyr either!" Ooooh, touchy. Having turned from the Weyrleader, when she turns back the jaw that had tightened has eased and complacency (however feigned) has set in, "I have my own interests to take care of. What's in it for me?" blunt.
N'thei looks stung. He lowers his hands from behind his head slowly, sets his chair back on all fours with decision, looks up at Shanlee in an attitude of shocked dismay. "Of all people, Shanlee, of all people to put personal greed above the needs of the many." He shakes his head, disappointed, and starts out of his own chair as if the meeting's adjourned itself. "I must have judged wrong, I thought we were doing something for all of us."
And Shanlee’s not buying it for a minute, as told by the cold smirk that touches her mouth, “Don’t even try that bullshit with me N’thei. You never do anything for the good of the whole without some kind of kick-back. Just tell me what it is, what my share is, and we’ll talk business.” Business. The weyrsecond takes a moment to regard her Weyrleader from a flat expression before turning on heel to head back out to her dragon, gear and thoughts.
N'thei, calm; "Shanlee." He doesn't chase her with more than the word. Either she'll turn around and ken, or she'll keep walking. He's staying put, whatever the case.
He’s rewarded with the first. Shanlee turns head over shoulder and plants a singular brow-lifted look from out of a now distant expression onto N’thei. Waiting. Her eyes transmitting the silent query, ‘What?’
Simple, frank-- "Everyone gets paid." And maybe they didn't fight thread today, maybe they never will again, but N'thei tosses his mark purse on to the end of the table closer to Shanlee. "Things are going to have to change," he continues, picking up his coat, his gloves. "But you will still get what you deserve."
While her moral code may be hard to figure, Shan’s not about to pass up marks either. Eyes follow the progress of the purse as it slides and comes to a rest nearer to her. Lips then curve into a line of satisfaction, no remorse as she closes the gap and scoops her takings up, “Everyone does in the end,” get what they deserve, “I only want what’s mine.”
Hard to say if it's accusation or approval when N'thei comments a barely audible, "Mercenary." He flicks a look to the taken money, to the hand that collects them, and he draws a resolute breath to bid them farewell with his teeth filing his lip silently.
The cool smile from Shan in response is accompanied by a tap of two fingers to the temple and a low chuckle followed by, "Nice doing business with you...Sir." And she'll leave N'thei there to mull over his marks, (now hers) as with a sway of hips the Weyrsecond departs with a jaunty, if somewhat bawdy tavern ditty humming under her breath. Foot-loose and fancy-free. Or so she would portray.