[Log] Blowing Smoke
Who: I'daur, Satiet
When: Day 6, Month 4, Turn 9
Where: Lakeshore, High Reaches Weyr
What: Satiet welcomes I'daur back home to the Reaches.
Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
This shoreline marks the edge of the freshwater lake that fills the southeastern portion of the bowl. The gritty dirt of the bowl gives way to smooth sand.
Across the lake, the bowl wall rises high into the sky, its face dotted with weyr entrances. A few dragonlengths above the water, glimpses of a level cliff can be seen amidst boulders lining the edge. Just south of here, a smaller pond of water is divided from the main lake by a natural bridge of land. A path leads across the bridge and up to the diving cliffs, winding through a dotting of small boulders on its way.
The evening seems darker then normal due to the overcast skies which blot out the stars and moons. The air is calm, with no hint of breeze. The water's glasslike surface mirrors the cliff walls and sky above.
Contents:
Zunaeth
Satiet
Teonath
Dijilia Wagon
Obvious exits:
LAke Pond Diving Cliff Bowl
Satiet
Satiet is slight and compact in build, overall figure slender and toned with muscles, especially along her arms. Her face is thin, almost sharply so, and its saving graces are the high cheekbones that taper into a gentle point at the chin. There's no doubt many may find her attractive, if only for the excess amount of confidence that exudes in the pride of her general posture, and the aloof hold of her chin. She appears to be in her early twenties, though hints of maturity are here and there in the ice cold depths of her blue eyes. The loose curls of her raven hair have been allowed to flow freely past to grace her bare shoulders. As typical, the lengthy sweep of her lopsided bangs are maintained and fall neatly over one eye to offset the cream of her skin with glossy near-black.
Some thought has gone into her attire for the day, a set of well-pressed flying leathers, soft and worn by age, in a beautiful fawn shade with crimson trimming. The pants are fawn colored, stitching visible at the pant hems, showing some retailoring had to go into making it fit correctly, and are decorated along the sides with dark red stripes, two on each side. A white shirt's collar is visible just underneath the lapels of the desert-colored jacket, the trim also in crimson. A pair of riding gloves, sleek and new are either worn or tucked visibly in loop of her belt. The loops of black and dark blue on her shoulder designates her as a weyrwoman at High Reaches; the pale cream-white gold thread intertwined in the ropes indicating the color of her lifemate.
Teonath
Brilliance glistens in the expansive sails of this pale and diminutive queen, stretched like sunlight caught in the web of her narrow wingspars. Exceptionally large eyes are lined with sweeps of rich ochre and set deep beneath finely-built eyeridges, gracing a broad head of wheaten gold crowned by curved headknobs scattered with dewy droplets. Ridges of cream filigree arise like flower petals from a sinuous neck which expresses, far more than does her enigmatic face, her moods and opinions with its arches and twists. A slender but powerful tail is similarly articulate, its tarnished-copper tip - the only dark part of her aside from those shadowed eyes - a poignant betrayal of her emotions. Despite youth-touched awkwardness, her long sinewy limbs move with a statueseque grace seeped with icy determination and ambition.
At 8 Turns, 2 months, and 9 days old, Teonath is approximately 39.3 meters in length with a wingspan of 65 meters.
I'daur
Six feet tall, solidly built, I'daur is an imposing man. He's well-muscled, with close-cropped steely-grey hair and a good tan that speaks of time recently spent in more tropical climes than the Reaches. His face is distinctly masculine, with a strong chin, squared jaw, and straight, prominent nose. Faint lines are beginning to crease around his mouth and crinkle the corners of his dark blue eyes. I'daur looks fortyish: a stern frown puts him in the early years of that decade, while his warm smile subtracts at least five from that age.
I'daur has a no-frills sense of fashion. He wears simple long-sleeved work shirts every day, in dull earth tones; in summer or when he's working hard, he usually rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. His pants exemplify well his belief of function over form: they're as plain as his shirts, made of heavy, dark fabrics and generously pocketed for the odds and ends he carries around with him. His shoes are black boots that don't match, not that I'daur seems to care: his belt's black as well, though hidden under the untucked hem of his shirt. Only in the most inclement weather does he throw a beat-up old riding jacket over himself. His knot marks him as a bronzerider and High Reaches' Weyrlingmaster.
I'daur's voice is gruff, deep and rough; it's the sort that carries well and is made for shouting out orders. He also has a tendency to limp on his left leg, though he's better at disguising that fact earlier in the day, when he's less tired.
Zunaeth
Zunaeth is very much an extension of his rider, physically and mentally. He mirrors I'daur well, from the strong wedge of his head to his light bronze shade, a dusty hue not much removed from some of his brown cousins. He's about average in size, built along stocky lines, not particularly graceful or sinuous in frame or movement. His coloring is lightest around his muzzle, darkening as it retreats further down his neck and back; his belly is, again, slightly lighter than the rest of his smooth caramel color.
Several small scars mark that muzzle, and occasionally one shows up elsewhere on his body, paler still than the surrounding hide. The biggest patch of scar tissue is at the base of his left wing, a long-healed Threadscore that wraps around the edge of the wingsail and the joint. Though it's large enough to limit his range of motion slightly, over the turns he's adjusted to the change enough that it very little hinders his flying. It and the other scars are medals of valor, proud declaration of his status as a fighting dragon.
The stars are out tonight, unmasked by the sometimes thunderous clouds of a Reachian spring, and the air is crisp; a little of winter remains in that biting breeze. Luminous in the moon's light, though it's a distinct difference from the glow a gold can gain at times, Teonath is reposed on the lake's sandy shores, with her rider not far off, standing with her chin tipped back and eyes closed. One of only a handful of people, the lateness of the hour and the brilliance of the moon has only drawn out two couples, both pairs walking along different parts of the shore, arm in arm.
Satiet is alone, and I'daur is alone. The older bronzerider is shuffling down from the living cavern toward the lake; Zunaeth already awaits him there, the dragon stretched out on the sand to enjoy the cool of the Reaches night. He's nearish Teonath, a few yards on down the line of the shore, with the gold and her rider between himself and his rider's approach. I'daur has to go right by the pair on his way to meet up with Zunaeth, and when he does so, he's compelled to reduce his already slow pace to study the woman there, and finally offer a, "Evening," to interrupt her.
Even without her eyes opened, there's an awareness about Satiet's jaw line, a slight tightening, that recognizes the approach of another. Picturesquely still for a spell, the dragon is the first to move, Teonath shutting the last, harder set of eyelids, over her eyes and pretends sleep, and only after that does Satiet open her eyes and drops her chin, slanting I'daur a look of cool appraisal. Perhaps something in him agrees with the slender woman, for soon, she smirks crookedly. "Good evening. Sir."
"Weyrwoman," I'daur says, nodding once in additional greeting. And then he's silent again, watching her watching him, though without the smirk Satiet dons for him. After several seconds of blatant staring, he finally offers, "I'daur, ma'am--Zunaeth." A nod toward the bronze, who's staring at Teonath with the same look as his rider gives Satiet. "Home from Monaco today," the man explains after a moment. "Been... a while. Nine turns. You're the new weyrwoman." Matter-of-fact.
Low laughter bubbles forth quickly, a slightly mocking sound. "Not so new. No, sir. Eight turns we've been paired, six of them as a weyrwoman. Satiet, Teonath's rider." Interest surfaces keen in the goldrider's pale eyes and her chin lifts seeking of the taller man's gaze. "I'daur-," on her breath, the name is questioning, overly intimate, as a silvered tongue wraps around the word. "I had heard." Three words contain so much knowledge when matched with knowing eyes: the history behind his departure and the news of his return. "You are most welcome back, sir. But I fear High Reaches must have changed much in your time away."
"New to me," answers I'daur simply, shoulders lifting slightly, a shrug cut short by his stiffening at his name, said thusly. He draws himself up straighter and repeats properly, "Weyrwoman." Pause. "Thank you, though," is conceded, a little more relaxed, as the man forces his mouth to form a half-smile. "It has, of course, weyrwoman. The people more so than the scenery--that never has changed. Got my old weyr back, though--hasn't been touched since I moved."
"New to you," Satiet concedes with a tiny smile. "I've heard that the Weyrleaders-," a long pause is followed by a correction, "The Weyrwoman and those who remembered had hoped the glorious sunshine and warmth of the south would compel you to return." The smile plays teasingly, her pale eyes still cool with assessment. "The people are ever changing and change, sir," her head dips, blue visible through a fringe of dark lashes, "Is on the horizon."
"Did they?" I'daur's brows knit sternly, his frown creasing the lines about his mouth into shape. "I should think one crippled old bronzerider wouldn't be worth hoping on," he notes dryly. "Especially after nearly a decade. Did they really think I'd abandon the warmth for--this?" He glances briefly past her, across the lake being stirred about by the cool wind that lingers through the spring. Then, still not looking back yet, he adds, "I thought we'd already /had/ change. The Weyrleader--"
"Precisely. Do you think one change will not result in a typhoon waves' worth soon?" The subject of the new Weyrleader draws out this comment, but it's clipped, less sly and more matter of fact. Then, it is discarded. "People cling to those they know, especially as they approach your-," the slyness returns, her head tilting, "Respectful and very wise age." Satiet turns her palm over, her fingers curling lightly as they extend to the bronzerider. "If you've returned, it seems even the sun couldn't tempt you to stay. You prefer the cool here, admit it."
"Don't blow smoke up my ass, weyrwoman," I'daur retorts to Satiet with a dry smirk, though there's no malice in the tone. "If you're calling me old, might as well come out and say it. I am old." He studies her anew, and then that hand extended his way; it takes him several long moments to finally offer one of his calloused own. "Maybe I do, weyrwoman," he agrees gruffly. "Maybe I'm just being set in my ways and just coming back to what I know."
"Or maybe," Satiet's dark curls spill over her shoulders, an easy smile on her shapely mouth. "Just maybe, you actually like the Weyr you Impressed and grew up at, old man." Oddly, there's deference for the man in the weyrwoman's cool alto, the smile sparking further emotion in her eyes: intrigue. "Welcome home, I'daur."
I'daur doesn't answer that possibility aloud for that moment, though perhaps the wry twist of his mouth is answer enough. At that look, her latter words, he draws himself up again, straighter, in order to reply, "Thank you, weyrwoman. It's... good to be back."
Steadily, the young weyrwoman watches I'daur, the ease of her smile leaving lingering effects in her expression far after the smile itself has disappeared: her eyes glitter, her cheeks retain an impression of her right cheek's dimple. "Do they watch stars at Monaco?" Abrupt in her change of the subject, Satiet tips her head back again to watch the twinkling lights in the sky.
I'daur mirrors Satiet's motion, glancing upward to study the long-absent constellations of the North. "Some of 'em, weyrwoman," is his answer, given before he lowers his chin again to face her. "Young couples, mostly--they're all starry-eyed, anyway. They're different down there." Another look to the sky, an absent, thick-fingered gesture to a couple of the most familiar patterns of stars. "Never got around to learning them again."
"Perhaps," Satiet steals a look to the older man, her upward gaze not having to drop too far to find grey of I'daur's hair, "I'll teach them to you, but another time, sir. I'm afraid I've taken too much of your time and Teonath mentions the watchrider's seen a storm headed in."
Automatically, I'daur's eyes drop again when Satiet speaks, and then, as he comprehends them, they seek out the watchrider on the star stones. "Yes, ma'am," he agrees after a moment, nodding once. "Ought to be getting home myself. Have a good night, weyrwoman."
She was waiting, it seems, for such a response, and with mocking deference in the slight incline of her head, Satiet responds in kind, "Good night, sir." With a hand to her dragon's hide, her proud little chin lifted high, the pair move in unison. Any semblance of feigned sleep is shed from the queen's openly expressive eyes and limbs, and instead of gliding, they walk, together, towards their ledge.