[Log] Games
Who: I'daur, Satiet
When: Day 16, Month 2, Turn 11
Where: I'daur and Zunaeth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
What: Satiet stops by to tell I'daur about his new assistant.
Dragon> Zunaeth senses that Teonath intrudes blithely, making herself quite at home in the bronze's mind and aiming to inch herself up to the top of his 'must drop everything and pay attention to her' list. << We come. >> Not a question, but a statement of intent that won't be thrown off.
Teonath swoops down to a landing on the ledge.
Teonath has arrived.
Satiet vaults down Teonath's side to the ground, using her straps as handholds.
Satiet has arrived.
Zunaeth offers no mental reply to that, but he is waiting out on the ledge for the gold, watching the sky for her incoming. I'daur isn't on the ledge or up on the lookout; he must be inside.
Teonath doesn't glide as gracefully anymore, a little lumpy about the edges, but she is direct in her flight up from her ledge to Zunaeth's, and in the space made for her, she lands heavily. There's a wrinkled nose for the less than stellar landing, before Satiet swings her legs over the neck and slides down. As their flight up allowed a view of the empty lookout point, the goldrider is dismissive of those upward stairs and down into the weyr she goes.
I'daur is inside, seated on his bed's edge. There's a mess of clothes behind him, waiting to be folded and put away, but he's not messing with them at the moment. He does look around as someone enters, offering a brief, "Weyrwoman." Outside, Zunaeth reaches over to offer Teonath a rumble and a nudge with his graying muzzle, inching closer to the egg-heavy gold.
"Weyrlingmaster," Satiet greets coolly as her last step drops her from the staircase onto more even ground. She looks past the bronzerider to find the mountain of clothes and then passes a glance about to take in the other decorations of the cave. "You have a moment? Or are the throes of laundry occupying your attention?" Teonath accepts the attentiveness of Zunaeth in a queenly fashion, not stretching forward her neck in response, but twisting her neck higher to slant a coy glance down.
It's unbecoming, perhaps, for a dragon of Zunaeth's age and storied history, to dote upon the much younger queen, but that's what he does, bumping his snout against her throat generally, brushing up against her, while inside, I'daur just looks at Satiet and finally shrugs. "Make yourself at home," he encourages, with a vague gesture toward the chairs. She'll have to clear one off, but. He remains where he is, and while he doesn't answer the question his continued observance of her is reply enough.
Unbecoming or not, Teonath warms considerably for the dotage, spreading her mass a bit more comfortably as she drops that twisting neck to brush gently against the top of Zunaeth's head. "She's focused, I grant her that," Satiet just jumps in, feet first with little explanation. She glances about the cave again, ignores the chairs gestured to and just sets up shop standing in the middle of the room with one hand to her hip, her weight slanted heavily to the right. "I think," the goldrider begins mockingly, "She has a crush on you. What do you think, sir?"
"I think she's fonder of Zunaeth," I'daur notes. "Same species, and all. Can't see her coming all this way in /that/ state just to see me." The misinterpretation might be deliberate; he's smirking after all, and raising a brow as he watches Satiet.
Satiet's mouth twitches, the ability to hold back her laughter failing her miserably and oddly light, the silvery sound echoes in the weyr. "I don't know why *she's* fond of Zunaeth. Personally, I don't see the attraction in a gimp." The emphasis of the pronoun couples with a lifted brow that slants just slightly back up the stairs to where the dragons are making out - this emphasis makes clear this she is not the same she the goldrider was speaking of earlier. And obviously, she's vaguely insulting especially in that last. The wait for a response is only momentary before she clarifies, "Talien. Your stalker."
"Don't have to know what it is," I'daur says of that attraction, "to have it. What about her?" And now he slides, quickly, to the subject of Talien, with a faintly challenging tilt to his chin.
Satiet allows that look of challenge to remain unanswered for a long length of silence, having the patience to just stand there and watch I'daur. Then, breaking the silence, is cool bemusement and a hand gesture that rakes fingers through her glossy hair: "I'm just trying to figure out what her intense focus on you is. It can't just be her brother died. Are you twisting the panties of a girl that's young enough to be your granddaughter, I-dau-r." The name is somehow turned into three syllables with her elongating drawl.
"I ain't that old," I'daur retorts gruffly. "And she ain't that young. Her panties was in a twist long before I met her. You ought to leave it to us, though--our relationship, Weyrwoman. Sure you got more important ones of your own to worry about."
Satiet let's a smile part her lips as she, seemingly, is successful in eliciting a reaction from the weyrlingmaster. Her question: "How do you feel about an assistant that's not M'wen or Maja?" is posed idly.
"Depends on if it's somebody better'n them," retorts I'daur warily.
With such a question made, Satiet doesn't make good on following up on it with anything further. Instead, the slender woman begins to traipse about the weyrlingmaster's weyr in idle inspection. "I'd have thought you'd keep a neater home."
"You're welcome to clean it," I'daur invites the goldrider, still sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed, "if it don't live up to your standards."
"No standards," Satiet waves a hand, dismissive of his offer. "And I don't clean other people's weyrs." The look she flashes the weyrlingmaster is one of cool appraisal, a touch snotty - she's a Weyrwoman, not a drudge. "Still, your weyr could use a woman's touch."
"No kidding," says I'daur of Satiet's standards, smirking. And: "It's had one, before. Didn't like it much. S'my weyr, I keep it the way I want it."
Sharply, for her slip of tongue and his capitalization of that slip, Satiet turns a narrowed look to the older man. That she says nothing more of redecorating I'daur's weyr is fairly telling. "I've assigned Talien to shadow you for a day every sevenday for a turn."
"A whole damn turn, huh?" says I'daur, lips pursing quickly. He pushes himself to his feet but doesn't pace as she did, instead just looking at her from that higher vantage point. "I don't want her. I don't need the help."
"More," Satiet clarifies, "If I deem it necessary. If you don't somehow drill it into her thick head how life at a Weyr and weyrlinghood works. Maybe," the goldrider mocks, "You'll get lucky and she'll be Searched for Teonath's clutch and then Impress." Oh, the horror. "Good luck."
"I'm not taking her," I'daur states again, flatly, as he folds his arms over his broad chest. "This is /my/ program. Don't think that fancy knot gives you the right to make some little girl work with the man who killed her brother just for your amusement--Weyrwoman."
"Why not?" Infusing an angelicism she's -definitely- not known for into her intonation, Satiet dons an equally blank innocence in her pale eyes.
"Because," says I'daur, taking a few shuffling steps toward Satiet to better loom over the much smaller woman, "it ain't right, and I'm not going to play along."
"Don't play along then." Undaunted by the shadow that falls over her slight frame, Satiet holds her own, chin lifted a smidge and pale eyes flashing cold blue flames. "You'll just be prolonging her stay here."
Still stiff, I'daur draws himself up straighter to look down at Satiet for several long seconds, staring at her hard like that will make her reconsider--or like he's imagining just shaking her until she rattles. But even though he's plainly still furious himself, he still asks, "When's she starting?"
Satiet stares just as hard right back up, unflinching and tiny. Perhaps she discerns the man's desire to shake her and his subsequent restraint for a tiny curl mars her expressionless appearance. It's smirky, snide, and smug. She wins - and it shows in her even straighter stance and the tilt of her head that sends the sweep of her bangs completely out of her eyes. "Any time this sevenday."
It's that expression that does it. I'daur's mouth tightens again at the little victory smirk, that smug stance and tilt of Satiet's head, and it hits another button, apparently, as he reaches to grab her. Maybe he intends to shake her, or slap her, or--something else, to wipe that expression off. What he does is try to drag her closer, and then, roughly, to lean down and kiss her.
For the amount of pride and strength Satiet retains in her slight frame, she's amazingly easy to pull closer and kiss, not a note of protest dropping from her lips or a twitch of a struggle at being manhandled. Triumph gleams brilliant in her pale eyes before they lid to give herself fully into the kiss for two heartbeats longer, then puts up the first signs of struggling: pushing away and lifting her knee to part I'daur's legs - not that she does anything with it yet, it's just there poised to jerk higher.
It's I'daur's turn to be--just a little--smug as Satiet gives in so easily to his manhandling, and while it's certainly a minor feeling considering, it's still present when he lets her pull away. He keeps a hold on her arm, though not so heavy a one--she could probably pull away completely if she were so inclined; it's not like he could go sprinting after her, after all. So, like this, he stands there, watching her rather expectantly, and arching one brow slightly. Her move.
He thinks he's garnered a victory, she believes it's hers and the knee, unneeded, unbends to allow Satiet's foot to drop to the floor with the softest clunk of her heel. The triumph of before's flickered out leaving only the smug satisfaction that lingers after a particularly inspired kiss, and the goldrider seems to enjoy the still silence, just watching him for a moment. A hand slips up, pats I'daur's cheek with condescending sweetness, and with arch coyness in her alto, she remarks, "So tell me how that works out for you. I'll let you," she cuts a quick look to the laundry still on I'daur's bed, "Get back to your pressing needs."
"Weyrwoman," says I'daur, still with an undercurrent of anger with her in his voice, especially as she pats his cheek. The title is apparently meant to serve as goodbye enough, because he offers nothing else, and doesn't move away, either, though he lets his hand drop away from her.
Another pat punctuates his title goodbye, as her hand remains there, a pat that turns into a mocking caress that trails fingers delicately down his cheek to play a trilling dance at his chin. Satiet doesn't say anything in her exit, merely glancing back at the laundry-strewn bed once more with a smirk, and then begins a slow trek up the stairs.
I'daur just stands there, and looks at Satiet as she saunters out. Outside, Zunaeth huddles a little closer to Teonath for her impending departure, and offers her one last rumble and a brush of his scarred old muzzle before, reluctantly, he pulls away as well to give her room. He gives Satiet a dirty look, only half for stealing away his gold, to be sure.
Teonath isn't as reluctant as Zunaeth to depart, though she makes a good show of it by nosing his nuzzle gently. But she's ready to leave, rest her egg-burdened body in a wallow more familiar to her, and Satiet is quick to mount, ignoring the dirty look. "Tell him," a look finally cast the bronze, "Not so sloppy next time." With a cheeky wink, she spurs Teonath to flight and the two disappear down onto their ledge.