After the Fort Weyr Hatching.
RL Date: 3/8/09
IC Date: 2/21/19
The murmurs throughout the stands as the hatching ends gives Satiet a good enough overview of what happened, which is enough for her. As others prepare to leave, she lingers, keeping to her seat and staying N'thei with fingers to his shoulder. Or perhaps it's an unvoiced rebuke, as again those pale eyes find Fayre -- looking for signs that the other goldrider might have overheard or rather seen the plain disgust. "Staying for the free liquor?"
Fayre's face is a combination of happiness and disappointment as the last dragon impresses. She glances at the distant figure of Suizen, and again her expression is torn between a frown and a smile. Finally, she just shrugs and sets about putting her bundle of clothes back on. She jumps a bit when Satiet addresses her, but she answers calmly enough, "Oh, well, free booze is always hard to turn down. But this weather doesn't agree with my Istan temperment." Was there a slight emphasis on Istan? It's hard to tell.
From the sands, It does indeed seem done, and Zaiventh gives his wings a great big stretch now that all the excitement is over. "Nice looking kids, guys," R'uen says to both the dragons, and then to Cirse: "You planning on cleaning up right?" He gestures toward the rake.
That she was addressing N'thei was hard to tell, what with her eyes on Fayre, and if the Istan junior startles, so does Satiet, when an unexpected answer comes to her unintended question. It's enough to elicit low laughter from the bright-eyed weyrwoman, and her question of party-staying, albeit lower, is repeated for N'thei's benefit, her head tipped to his ear, before she's ready to give Fayre her attention once more. "You're the betting girl," is finally noted, a far off recollection coming to her slowly. "Did you bet on these eggs?"
Stay. Just like a good boy. N'thei turns his head up just slightly when Fayre intervenes on "his" conversation with Satiet, just on the tip of his tongue to answer about free liquor when the Istan beats him to the punch. "Haven't made up my mind yet," he puts in as an aside, more interested in raising questioning brows at Fayre than thinking over the question of his eventual return to the 'Reaches. Problem?
"The betting woman, aye." Fayre switches the wording there, but her tone remains unoffended. "Naw, didn't this round. Don't know the eggs or weyr will enough, y'know? Wouldn't be good guesses. Was relaxing to just watch for once, though." The goldrider eyes N'thei, her own eyebrows raising up. "You alright there, fella? Y'look a bit...surprised." She shrugs on her thick jacket and twists her scarf around her neck; there, all ready for winter again. Considering her already large figure, the ensemble makes her look like a very odd puffball.
From the sands, After all those explanations, Cirse looks down as though seeing the rake for the first time. "Yes," she agrees, looking past it to the remnants of chaos, to the galleries and then, longer, to the ledges. Back to R'uen, "Though I am telling myself that it will be better after the egg fluids dry entirely, so they will not be so sticky. We should... go to the living cavern for the feast, see and be seen, compliment the cooks." Her hand steals back to Peirith's hide.
From the sands, R'uen can't argue with that. "I'll meet you down there." He takes a last look across the sands, all slimy and litered with bit of shell, and then he's off.
"Do I," answers a man who doesn't particularly care if he looks surprised. N'thei deigns to clarify, "We were discussing the quality of Ista, and there you were." Unfriendly merriment brightens the eyes that rake Fayre in an unforgiving once-over.
Fayre bobs her head. "Yeah, you do." She answers N'thei, very matter-of-fact. "Oh, good. Hope I gave you two a good impression of Ista, then." Clearly, the giant puffball cannot see what she looks like right now. "Lieryth is gettin' real tired of the cold here, though, so I best be gettin' her back to there. Come visist us sometime, yeah?" The offer does seem fairly genuine, as the goldrider flashes a wide grin before she awkwardly lumbers out of the galleries.
From the sands, Peirith's gone quiet, her humming faded, her hatchlings gone for now to another's care. Cirse leans fully against her queen, allowing her eyes to close in R'uen's and the others' absence. "All right," she says very quietly. "Time to go. It, it shouldn't take long. All right? You'll find a perch?" Peirith tips her head to rub against her lifemate, and then the woman too leaves. Peirith takes wing. And Cirse leans her rake against the wall on her way out.
From the sands, Cirse ambles over to the cavern's entrance.
Cirse ambles over from the hatching sands.
It's only after Fayre's left that Satiet looks away from the departing Istan's back to glance over N'thei. With a beatific smile, blue eyes framed by wide-thrown lashes, she inquires, "Y'alright there, fella?" A thin hand is spared the Weyrleader, "If you go. I will." If not, making her rounds and partying isn't high on the list of her priorities, as sketched in the worn lines about her eyes.
N'thei's warning looks work pretty well on most people. He doesn't hold out much hope that it will impact Satiet to the same degree, but he sends one of those not-afraid-to-punch-you looks toward the goldrider before closing his hand around hers. Which he handles like he might a baby-bird: crushable (or likely to leave something nasty on his fingers?). "You know how much I love a good party," he answers, not without irony, and stands only now that the crowds have thinned considerably. Also, he peers at the evident fragility of the goldrider, one more tip-of-his-tongue thing that he hasn't got around to vocalizing.
Deliberately, Satiet's faux Istan drawl lingers in her slow-spoken words. "Right." Because N'thei is known for his love of any social situation he has to smile and play nice at. Right. It's written all over her mockingly dubious features, however fragile they might be. But her next breath brings with it an admission, frayed only slightly about the edges of her cool alto and softening the sarcasm inherent in her upward expression, "I wouldn't mind leaving after passing on my regards to Fort's new Weyrwoman. You may stay." The unvoiced, passive-aggressive 'if you want' is touched in the turn of her thin hand in his bird-crushing one, as if to release him onto the world alone, but possessive yet in the curl of her fingers against his palm. If he wants.
From the edge of the sands, Cirse doesn't so much make her way towards the entrance as go with opportunities that arise, pausing with a careful smile for a couple journeymen who aren't watching where they're going, stepping into a breach when they move on and others nearby are slower to take notice. There are congratulations to be gotten and, for certain family members, given. Still, an upward glance towards the dignitaries' section finds some still there; tall-broad-N'thei in his finery's a hard man to miss, but given that marker, dark eyes slip down to fix on his petite Weyrwoman in her furs instead. And then there's her own Weyrleader's girl, beyond her. Rather than summon weyrwomanly presence and fight upstream, however, she angles across traffic towards the wall and makes of herself an island there, head tipped up, waiting for traffic to clear or for them, or others, to descend.
N'thei's own admission goes unfinished, only so far as, "You seem..." She seems something he hasn't quite put his head around yet, better that way, better expressed in light of the fact that he maintains possession of her hand rather than the old fare: ohmygod don't touch me, you horrible viper-woman. So as not to linger on certain matters, he adds in an undertone, "Not making nice with that little--" Profanity. "--that plays at Weyrleader here. But I'll be happy to smile at Cirse with you." Made particularly easy by the fact that the Fortian Weyrwoman is still on site, so all he has to do is continue toward the exit and they're certain to cross paths.
Not even batting a lash at his speculation, her hand in his tightens. Is it reassuring? Or just a show of who wears the pants? Satiet does, however, smile thin for his appraisal of Fort's Weyrleader, making all of N'thei's various wounds better by pouring salve on them with a blithe, "Better than if it were his wonder twin in crime." But off to Cirse they go, and the Reaches' senior goldrider is easy maneuvered through the crowds, her exit far easier for the massive bulk by her side than when she arrived.
As the hatching ends, Tiriana's eyes have found R'uen again, and though he makes a quick getaway from the sands, her exit's considerably hampered by the press of people, those running out to get home or just make the party before everyone else gets there. It's not until things are settling down again that she can finally move amongst the crowd, tugging her coat back on as she goes. The slow progress, at least, lets her take the time to look about at who's nearby, and the rest of her Weyr's contigent is pretty easy to pick out. Likely not realizing their goal in Cirse, Tiriana weaves through that way herself, over toward N'thei and Satiet.
Cirse's island acquires new-named F'vel's parents, the holder apologetic, his wife assuring that they'll scrape up what more they can find for Fort, for the sake of her "baby boy," enough to put her nearly-twenty son to blush if he'd only heard. It's a smallhold, a tiny hold, but at least Fort might become a handkerchief or two richer next spring. Cirse is soft-spoken with them, practical, happy to introduce them to Fort's headwoman, Shevena. But after they too can celebrate, yes? Yes. The next round of parents are harpers, a master and a journeyrank, though with no onetime-Masterharper among them: meet, smile, compliment, all that people do, before it's the next round's turn.
"Will thank you to note that his little friend practically kissed my ass when it was all over." Someone with more delicate sensibilities, probably one of the parents on line to shake Cirse's hand, gives N'thei a disapproving sniff and passes out of the cavern with haughty haste. At the point where the Fortian goldrider might actually overhear, though, he smartly shuts up, straightens up in a shoulder-square way, and conspires to press his fingers to the small of Satiet's back-- thereby putting all responsibility for this encounter on her, thank you. Tiriana's approach goes unnoticed so far. Probably for the best.
"His little friend is better looking." Said in lilting, 'I'd hit that' tone. Highly attuned to Tiriana in that way only people who set out to ignore someone so deliberately can, Satiet, unlike her male counterpart, can spy the junior weyrwoman a mile away. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the dark-haired woman turns a far more congenial smile on Cirse than other circumstances might have allowed for. When it's finally their turn after round after round of intercepting parent and dignitary, Satiet draws her shoulders up, apparently drawing strength from the pressed hand to her back, and greets, cordial enough for her ever-cool alto, "Congratulations, Weyrwman. Our belated duties to you in your ascent to seniorship."
Tiriana might catch some of Tiriana's latter words, but not enough of the context to understand--and with her eyes settling on Cirse now, she seems less concerned with her own Weyrleaders. Letting Satiet speak up for them, she hovers just behind, having inserted herself in ahead of a handful of those parents that seem intent on getting to Cirse themselves.
The last round of parents (with a special accompaniment of little sister this time) doesn't exactly scurry, but some eyes get round, and they certainly don't dally at seeing who's behind them. Cirse locates a smile from somewhere or other, even finds enough energy to make it a warm one. "Welcome to you, High Reaches, and my thanks. One must wait to make sure Fort doesn't run through yet another Weyrwoman, perhaps." Speaking of Weyrleaders hanging out with other Weyrs' juniors.
N'thei, amused by the implication of Satiet's infidelity, thumb-to-finger cracks a knuckle on one hand; he did hit that, remember? The sound mutes, though, since he drops his hand behind his back in a parade-resting shadow a half-step behind Satiet. Clean-shaven and theoretically sober, at least he looks his part today. "If I may say, madam, I think Fort's wound up in better hands for all the turnover rate was on the high side for a bit there'," he contributes with conscientious blandness. A glance catches Tiriana, leaves him literally biting his tongue for the moment.
At that, Satiet has no choice but to cross her chin toward her shoulder and cast a narrowed glance back at Tiriana. Sunnily, "Or yet another Weyrleader?" replies High Reaches' apparently spokesperson to Cirse. Whether it's the subject at hand or plain formality, Satiet wrests her hand free of N'thei, only to offer it, palm down, fingers loose, to the Fortian. "Tiriana," the junior goldrider's name lifts Satiet's alto a notch higher, commanding. "Come. Pay your respects to Fort's Weyrwoman."
N'thei's attention earns a frown from Tiriana, but at least he doesn't call her out so. When Satiet does, dismay at once colors the junior's features; and she takes a bare half-step forward to face the other woman. "Weyrwoman," she says finally. Then, and how it must stick in her throat: "Congratulations. Was a... lovely clutch." Pause. "Really." Because that will convince them all of her sincerity.
"Thank you," Cirse says, as one does, and her smile returns, shining. "You will understand, I think, that it is not just the implications for Peirith and myself that bring us to hope for greater continuity! And with this newest clutch bringing us also a junior, we should not need to make off with yours during the daytime as well as at night." Her tone is likewise light, next thing to teasing, which fits the dip of her head and the, "As you say," to Satiet. She returns the other Weyrwoman's gesture, too, palm crossing palm with dark eyes seeking to do the same with light, more serious now. It's a moment or two before she must look away to recognize Tiriana. "Junior Weyrwoman. Terribly kind of you, as always."
Abrupt; "Think I'd best go see about drinks." Maybe it's standing around with three goldriders, maybe it's trying to pretend he knows or cares about the vested future of Fort Weyr, or maybe it's just the fact that it's almost five in the evening and he's still sober, but N'thei offers a hand around to Cirse all at once, intent on dislodging himself from this grouping post haste. Look the part? Yes. But schmoozing is so clearly not his forte, even if it does involve back-handedly belittling poor Tiriana.
Oh, how the politics of Pern are all decided in the beds of its leaders. Fully aware of this, Satiet maintains her polite smile for just a few seconds more before lowered words that aren't quite low enough are spoken to N'thei, ostensibly aimed for his ear, but his shoulder and then back will do: "Teonath grows restless." A likely enough excuse, given her drawn facial features and how her hand seeks his forearm to steady herself with. But she speaks too soon and the discomforted N'thei is perhaps no longer an option. So it's to Cirse, an incredible contrast to herself - dark to light, tall to slight, athletic to thin - that her study returns. "Please, don't let us keep you from your festivities and give our duties and Tiriana's regards to her weyrmate. Good afternoon, Weyrwoman."
Tiriana's mouth tightens unpleasantly, and she visibly bristles at all this talk about stealing her for one Weyr or another. "Of course," she grates out an answer to Cirse, but only just; her duties given, she's already turning away to make her own escape, much as N'thei. Though, at Satiet's last, she does pause, glancing back around at the Fortian again. Coldly, "That won't be necessary. I'll give them to him myself."
"Good day," Cirse has for N'thei, along with a brief handshake of her own, a polite, "There should be quite the variety." Since he won't be drinking fabric. To his Weyrwoman, "Well met, and Fort's duties to the 'Reaches, and our greeting to Teonath." Her eyes haven't flicked to Tiriana for Satiet's suggestion, though there's a brief pause where they could have. "I hope we shall again soon. Meet, that is," she realizes she must add, with a self-deprecating pull of her mouth, before she sidesteps to make getting past that much easier. But then there's Tiriana, and she lifts her hands, taking no part of it: that's between the two of them. Just that, before some hangers-on see the 'Reaches contingent leaving and renew their own approach.
"Give him mine while you're at it," N'thei contributes to Tiriana with his own brand of merriment renewed, feeling himself under considerably less pressure to be /appropriate/ now that he's done the handshake thing. Probably no more than a farewell, he adds a low word or two for Satiet, twitched with a smile that's like to an apology-- sorry he's a drunkard who can't make nice more than five minutes without needing to run off? Somewhere in there, brief though it is, there's a look passed to Cirse as if he might need to excuse the antics of the Reaches' foremost ambassadors, just before he goes cutting off toward the exit to avail himself of free liquor.
You whisper "If you get to where you want to talk about... whatever it is? I'm listening." to Satiet.
Cirse sidesteps and Satiet stands still, to exhale steadily. Her thin features tighten at what N'thei says before he leaves, but as he's on his way out, there's no need for a faux smile to be the bow on the fur-wrapped package that is his Weyrwoman. Instead, she watches him depart and turns to drop her chin briefly to Cirse, the show of gracious respect there at the very least and makes her first, slow steps towards the stairs, only able to catch Tiriana due to her pause. "Enjoy yourself then."
Tiriana, unusually, has no retort for N'thei but a distracted nod, her brow furrowing as she watches Satiet approach her. A half-pace backward meets the Weyrwoman, and Tiriana falls into step at her elbow, hovering as they make their slow exit.
You wander out to the bowl.
Supposedly off for free booze, let the record show that N'thei and Wyaeth depart every bit as sober as they arrived.
IC Date: 2/21/19
The murmurs throughout the stands as the hatching ends gives Satiet a good enough overview of what happened, which is enough for her. As others prepare to leave, she lingers, keeping to her seat and staying N'thei with fingers to his shoulder. Or perhaps it's an unvoiced rebuke, as again those pale eyes find Fayre -- looking for signs that the other goldrider might have overheard or rather seen the plain disgust. "Staying for the free liquor?"
Fayre's face is a combination of happiness and disappointment as the last dragon impresses. She glances at the distant figure of Suizen, and again her expression is torn between a frown and a smile. Finally, she just shrugs and sets about putting her bundle of clothes back on. She jumps a bit when Satiet addresses her, but she answers calmly enough, "Oh, well, free booze is always hard to turn down. But this weather doesn't agree with my Istan temperment." Was there a slight emphasis on Istan? It's hard to tell.
From the sands, It does indeed seem done, and Zaiventh gives his wings a great big stretch now that all the excitement is over. "Nice looking kids, guys," R'uen says to both the dragons, and then to Cirse: "You planning on cleaning up right?" He gestures toward the rake.
That she was addressing N'thei was hard to tell, what with her eyes on Fayre, and if the Istan junior startles, so does Satiet, when an unexpected answer comes to her unintended question. It's enough to elicit low laughter from the bright-eyed weyrwoman, and her question of party-staying, albeit lower, is repeated for N'thei's benefit, her head tipped to his ear, before she's ready to give Fayre her attention once more. "You're the betting girl," is finally noted, a far off recollection coming to her slowly. "Did you bet on these eggs?"
Stay. Just like a good boy. N'thei turns his head up just slightly when Fayre intervenes on "his" conversation with Satiet, just on the tip of his tongue to answer about free liquor when the Istan beats him to the punch. "Haven't made up my mind yet," he puts in as an aside, more interested in raising questioning brows at Fayre than thinking over the question of his eventual return to the 'Reaches. Problem?
"The betting woman, aye." Fayre switches the wording there, but her tone remains unoffended. "Naw, didn't this round. Don't know the eggs or weyr will enough, y'know? Wouldn't be good guesses. Was relaxing to just watch for once, though." The goldrider eyes N'thei, her own eyebrows raising up. "You alright there, fella? Y'look a bit...surprised." She shrugs on her thick jacket and twists her scarf around her neck; there, all ready for winter again. Considering her already large figure, the ensemble makes her look like a very odd puffball.
From the sands, After all those explanations, Cirse looks down as though seeing the rake for the first time. "Yes," she agrees, looking past it to the remnants of chaos, to the galleries and then, longer, to the ledges. Back to R'uen, "Though I am telling myself that it will be better after the egg fluids dry entirely, so they will not be so sticky. We should... go to the living cavern for the feast, see and be seen, compliment the cooks." Her hand steals back to Peirith's hide.
From the sands, R'uen can't argue with that. "I'll meet you down there." He takes a last look across the sands, all slimy and litered with bit of shell, and then he's off.
"Do I," answers a man who doesn't particularly care if he looks surprised. N'thei deigns to clarify, "We were discussing the quality of Ista, and there you were." Unfriendly merriment brightens the eyes that rake Fayre in an unforgiving once-over.
Fayre bobs her head. "Yeah, you do." She answers N'thei, very matter-of-fact. "Oh, good. Hope I gave you two a good impression of Ista, then." Clearly, the giant puffball cannot see what she looks like right now. "Lieryth is gettin' real tired of the cold here, though, so I best be gettin' her back to there. Come visist us sometime, yeah?" The offer does seem fairly genuine, as the goldrider flashes a wide grin before she awkwardly lumbers out of the galleries.
From the sands, Peirith's gone quiet, her humming faded, her hatchlings gone for now to another's care. Cirse leans fully against her queen, allowing her eyes to close in R'uen's and the others' absence. "All right," she says very quietly. "Time to go. It, it shouldn't take long. All right? You'll find a perch?" Peirith tips her head to rub against her lifemate, and then the woman too leaves. Peirith takes wing. And Cirse leans her rake against the wall on her way out.
From the sands, Cirse ambles over to the cavern's entrance.
Cirse ambles over from the hatching sands.
It's only after Fayre's left that Satiet looks away from the departing Istan's back to glance over N'thei. With a beatific smile, blue eyes framed by wide-thrown lashes, she inquires, "Y'alright there, fella?" A thin hand is spared the Weyrleader, "If you go. I will." If not, making her rounds and partying isn't high on the list of her priorities, as sketched in the worn lines about her eyes.
N'thei's warning looks work pretty well on most people. He doesn't hold out much hope that it will impact Satiet to the same degree, but he sends one of those not-afraid-to-punch-you looks toward the goldrider before closing his hand around hers. Which he handles like he might a baby-bird: crushable (or likely to leave something nasty on his fingers?). "You know how much I love a good party," he answers, not without irony, and stands only now that the crowds have thinned considerably. Also, he peers at the evident fragility of the goldrider, one more tip-of-his-tongue thing that he hasn't got around to vocalizing.
Deliberately, Satiet's faux Istan drawl lingers in her slow-spoken words. "Right." Because N'thei is known for his love of any social situation he has to smile and play nice at. Right. It's written all over her mockingly dubious features, however fragile they might be. But her next breath brings with it an admission, frayed only slightly about the edges of her cool alto and softening the sarcasm inherent in her upward expression, "I wouldn't mind leaving after passing on my regards to Fort's new Weyrwoman. You may stay." The unvoiced, passive-aggressive 'if you want' is touched in the turn of her thin hand in his bird-crushing one, as if to release him onto the world alone, but possessive yet in the curl of her fingers against his palm. If he wants.
From the edge of the sands, Cirse doesn't so much make her way towards the entrance as go with opportunities that arise, pausing with a careful smile for a couple journeymen who aren't watching where they're going, stepping into a breach when they move on and others nearby are slower to take notice. There are congratulations to be gotten and, for certain family members, given. Still, an upward glance towards the dignitaries' section finds some still there; tall-broad-N'thei in his finery's a hard man to miss, but given that marker, dark eyes slip down to fix on his petite Weyrwoman in her furs instead. And then there's her own Weyrleader's girl, beyond her. Rather than summon weyrwomanly presence and fight upstream, however, she angles across traffic towards the wall and makes of herself an island there, head tipped up, waiting for traffic to clear or for them, or others, to descend.
N'thei's own admission goes unfinished, only so far as, "You seem..." She seems something he hasn't quite put his head around yet, better that way, better expressed in light of the fact that he maintains possession of her hand rather than the old fare: ohmygod don't touch me, you horrible viper-woman. So as not to linger on certain matters, he adds in an undertone, "Not making nice with that little--" Profanity. "--that plays at Weyrleader here. But I'll be happy to smile at Cirse with you." Made particularly easy by the fact that the Fortian Weyrwoman is still on site, so all he has to do is continue toward the exit and they're certain to cross paths.
Not even batting a lash at his speculation, her hand in his tightens. Is it reassuring? Or just a show of who wears the pants? Satiet does, however, smile thin for his appraisal of Fort's Weyrleader, making all of N'thei's various wounds better by pouring salve on them with a blithe, "Better than if it were his wonder twin in crime." But off to Cirse they go, and the Reaches' senior goldrider is easy maneuvered through the crowds, her exit far easier for the massive bulk by her side than when she arrived.
As the hatching ends, Tiriana's eyes have found R'uen again, and though he makes a quick getaway from the sands, her exit's considerably hampered by the press of people, those running out to get home or just make the party before everyone else gets there. It's not until things are settling down again that she can finally move amongst the crowd, tugging her coat back on as she goes. The slow progress, at least, lets her take the time to look about at who's nearby, and the rest of her Weyr's contigent is pretty easy to pick out. Likely not realizing their goal in Cirse, Tiriana weaves through that way herself, over toward N'thei and Satiet.
Cirse's island acquires new-named F'vel's parents, the holder apologetic, his wife assuring that they'll scrape up what more they can find for Fort, for the sake of her "baby boy," enough to put her nearly-twenty son to blush if he'd only heard. It's a smallhold, a tiny hold, but at least Fort might become a handkerchief or two richer next spring. Cirse is soft-spoken with them, practical, happy to introduce them to Fort's headwoman, Shevena. But after they too can celebrate, yes? Yes. The next round of parents are harpers, a master and a journeyrank, though with no onetime-Masterharper among them: meet, smile, compliment, all that people do, before it's the next round's turn.
"Will thank you to note that his little friend practically kissed my ass when it was all over." Someone with more delicate sensibilities, probably one of the parents on line to shake Cirse's hand, gives N'thei a disapproving sniff and passes out of the cavern with haughty haste. At the point where the Fortian goldrider might actually overhear, though, he smartly shuts up, straightens up in a shoulder-square way, and conspires to press his fingers to the small of Satiet's back-- thereby putting all responsibility for this encounter on her, thank you. Tiriana's approach goes unnoticed so far. Probably for the best.
"His little friend is better looking." Said in lilting, 'I'd hit that' tone. Highly attuned to Tiriana in that way only people who set out to ignore someone so deliberately can, Satiet, unlike her male counterpart, can spy the junior weyrwoman a mile away. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the dark-haired woman turns a far more congenial smile on Cirse than other circumstances might have allowed for. When it's finally their turn after round after round of intercepting parent and dignitary, Satiet draws her shoulders up, apparently drawing strength from the pressed hand to her back, and greets, cordial enough for her ever-cool alto, "Congratulations, Weyrwman. Our belated duties to you in your ascent to seniorship."
Tiriana might catch some of Tiriana's latter words, but not enough of the context to understand--and with her eyes settling on Cirse now, she seems less concerned with her own Weyrleaders. Letting Satiet speak up for them, she hovers just behind, having inserted herself in ahead of a handful of those parents that seem intent on getting to Cirse themselves.
The last round of parents (with a special accompaniment of little sister this time) doesn't exactly scurry, but some eyes get round, and they certainly don't dally at seeing who's behind them. Cirse locates a smile from somewhere or other, even finds enough energy to make it a warm one. "Welcome to you, High Reaches, and my thanks. One must wait to make sure Fort doesn't run through yet another Weyrwoman, perhaps." Speaking of Weyrleaders hanging out with other Weyrs' juniors.
N'thei, amused by the implication of Satiet's infidelity, thumb-to-finger cracks a knuckle on one hand; he did hit that, remember? The sound mutes, though, since he drops his hand behind his back in a parade-resting shadow a half-step behind Satiet. Clean-shaven and theoretically sober, at least he looks his part today. "If I may say, madam, I think Fort's wound up in better hands for all the turnover rate was on the high side for a bit there'," he contributes with conscientious blandness. A glance catches Tiriana, leaves him literally biting his tongue for the moment.
At that, Satiet has no choice but to cross her chin toward her shoulder and cast a narrowed glance back at Tiriana. Sunnily, "Or yet another Weyrleader?" replies High Reaches' apparently spokesperson to Cirse. Whether it's the subject at hand or plain formality, Satiet wrests her hand free of N'thei, only to offer it, palm down, fingers loose, to the Fortian. "Tiriana," the junior goldrider's name lifts Satiet's alto a notch higher, commanding. "Come. Pay your respects to Fort's Weyrwoman."
N'thei's attention earns a frown from Tiriana, but at least he doesn't call her out so. When Satiet does, dismay at once colors the junior's features; and she takes a bare half-step forward to face the other woman. "Weyrwoman," she says finally. Then, and how it must stick in her throat: "Congratulations. Was a... lovely clutch." Pause. "Really." Because that will convince them all of her sincerity.
"Thank you," Cirse says, as one does, and her smile returns, shining. "You will understand, I think, that it is not just the implications for Peirith and myself that bring us to hope for greater continuity! And with this newest clutch bringing us also a junior, we should not need to make off with yours during the daytime as well as at night." Her tone is likewise light, next thing to teasing, which fits the dip of her head and the, "As you say," to Satiet. She returns the other Weyrwoman's gesture, too, palm crossing palm with dark eyes seeking to do the same with light, more serious now. It's a moment or two before she must look away to recognize Tiriana. "Junior Weyrwoman. Terribly kind of you, as always."
Abrupt; "Think I'd best go see about drinks." Maybe it's standing around with three goldriders, maybe it's trying to pretend he knows or cares about the vested future of Fort Weyr, or maybe it's just the fact that it's almost five in the evening and he's still sober, but N'thei offers a hand around to Cirse all at once, intent on dislodging himself from this grouping post haste. Look the part? Yes. But schmoozing is so clearly not his forte, even if it does involve back-handedly belittling poor Tiriana.
Oh, how the politics of Pern are all decided in the beds of its leaders. Fully aware of this, Satiet maintains her polite smile for just a few seconds more before lowered words that aren't quite low enough are spoken to N'thei, ostensibly aimed for his ear, but his shoulder and then back will do: "Teonath grows restless." A likely enough excuse, given her drawn facial features and how her hand seeks his forearm to steady herself with. But she speaks too soon and the discomforted N'thei is perhaps no longer an option. So it's to Cirse, an incredible contrast to herself - dark to light, tall to slight, athletic to thin - that her study returns. "Please, don't let us keep you from your festivities and give our duties and Tiriana's regards to her weyrmate. Good afternoon, Weyrwoman."
Tiriana's mouth tightens unpleasantly, and she visibly bristles at all this talk about stealing her for one Weyr or another. "Of course," she grates out an answer to Cirse, but only just; her duties given, she's already turning away to make her own escape, much as N'thei. Though, at Satiet's last, she does pause, glancing back around at the Fortian again. Coldly, "That won't be necessary. I'll give them to him myself."
"Good day," Cirse has for N'thei, along with a brief handshake of her own, a polite, "There should be quite the variety." Since he won't be drinking fabric. To his Weyrwoman, "Well met, and Fort's duties to the 'Reaches, and our greeting to Teonath." Her eyes haven't flicked to Tiriana for Satiet's suggestion, though there's a brief pause where they could have. "I hope we shall again soon. Meet, that is," she realizes she must add, with a self-deprecating pull of her mouth, before she sidesteps to make getting past that much easier. But then there's Tiriana, and she lifts her hands, taking no part of it: that's between the two of them. Just that, before some hangers-on see the 'Reaches contingent leaving and renew their own approach.
"Give him mine while you're at it," N'thei contributes to Tiriana with his own brand of merriment renewed, feeling himself under considerably less pressure to be /appropriate/ now that he's done the handshake thing. Probably no more than a farewell, he adds a low word or two for Satiet, twitched with a smile that's like to an apology-- sorry he's a drunkard who can't make nice more than five minutes without needing to run off? Somewhere in there, brief though it is, there's a look passed to Cirse as if he might need to excuse the antics of the Reaches' foremost ambassadors, just before he goes cutting off toward the exit to avail himself of free liquor.
You whisper "If you get to where you want to talk about... whatever it is? I'm listening." to Satiet.
Cirse sidesteps and Satiet stands still, to exhale steadily. Her thin features tighten at what N'thei says before he leaves, but as he's on his way out, there's no need for a faux smile to be the bow on the fur-wrapped package that is his Weyrwoman. Instead, she watches him depart and turns to drop her chin briefly to Cirse, the show of gracious respect there at the very least and makes her first, slow steps towards the stairs, only able to catch Tiriana due to her pause. "Enjoy yourself then."
Tiriana, unusually, has no retort for N'thei but a distracted nod, her brow furrowing as she watches Satiet approach her. A half-pace backward meets the Weyrwoman, and Tiriana falls into step at her elbow, hovering as they make their slow exit.
You wander out to the bowl.
Supposedly off for free booze, let the record show that N'thei and Wyaeth depart every bit as sober as they arrived.