[Log] Regards
Who: Cirse, N'thei, Satiet, Tiriana
When: Day 21, Month 2, Turn 19
Where: Galleries, Fort Weyr
What: After Fort's hatching, the leaders of High Reaches pay their respects to Cirse.
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 Satiet's former 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.
Dragon> If Tiriana is somewhat lacking in greetings, Iovniath makes up for it, with a brush of soft white just at the edges of Peirith's mind; a non-intrusive greeting. << It was a lovely clutch, Peirith. Congratulations are in order, to you and your mate. >> (Iovniath to Peirith)
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.
Dragon> Some moments later, amid a sense of smooth, even exploratory flight, Peirith's attention rises and falls towards that soft whiteness, taking it up in a wave's effortless rush: << And do you give them, Iovniath? >> The junior queen can't be unfamiliar, with as much time spent on neighboring ledges as they are, and yet. But it's a pleasant-enough question, all but rhetorical, along with, << And do you stay, tonight. >> Perhaps they should... adopt her. (Peirith to Iovniath)
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."
Dragon> To Peirith, Iovniath, with a burst of amused sparks struck through that white, answers as though the question were a completely unnecessary thing. << Of course! --But tonight, no, no I do not think we shall, >> and her voice lilts apologetic almost, in the muting of its brightness. << It would not do, to intrude so upon Fort's eminence in this time. >>
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."
Dragon> Fort's Senior easily, even congenially assures, << I have not known you to be an intrusion, Iovniath. >> Indeed, could she ever be? (Peirith to Iovniath)
Dragon> To Peirith, Iovniath projects, << No? >> Iovniath's voice lightens again to hear it. But it seems to do little, still, to change her own mind, as she only says, << I am very glad to hear it. >>
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."
Dragon> It's rare for Teonath to make such requests of another dragon, but there it is, likely without her rider's knowledge, << She needs help back to the Weyr. >> Back to /her/ waiting in the bowl. And for High Reaches' senior queen to deign to plea, it's the quiet, << Please, >> that aims to convince Iovniath of the necessity that Tiriana fulfill this task than any blustering alarms. (Teonath to Iovniath)
"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.
Dragon> Attentive at once, Iovniath's mind touches Teonath with familiar cold, and she asks no questions. << Whatever you need of us, >> she answers, and though for a moment her presence flickers, indicative of contact with Tiriana, she is quick to assure, << We will help. >> (Iovniath to Teonath)
Dragon> To Iovniath, Peirith's acknowledgement of Iovniath's assurance is a pleasant wave that rises in a swell of dark blue-green and then is gone, taking her attention with it.
Dragon> To Iovniath, Teonath's gratitute is a wash of almost deferential rose coloring. Almost. After all, she's still senior to Iovniath's junior.
"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.
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.
Dragon> Even thanked so, Iovniath does not take that gratitude as dismissal: even now, as her rider hovers, her own cool mental touch remains just at the fringes of Teonath's, present and ready, though the questions she's too polite to voice hover there with her also. (Iovniath to Teonath)
N'thei steps out to the bowl.
N'thei has left.
That brief look has Cirse looking after his weyrwomen, after all, and not just those who are lining up to meet and greet. Satiet in particular, so thin, such furs, something about the way she moves and breathes, and then her taller but similarly-complected shadow... but then it's holders, more of her holders as they are now, holders whose harvests fed the hatching feast that some of them are about to eat, and so she turns to find a smile for them too.
She doesn't quite lean on Tiriana, but proud Satiet doesn't shake off the assistance at her elbow either and with the junior by her side, the pace does quicken a little. And when they arrive at the bowl to where a pale Teonath waits, High Reaches Weyrwoman reaches up to push Tiriana's hair behind her ear, and again states, simply, "Enjoy yourself." Perhaps the first words spoken to the younger woman since their last encounter. She even jokes, drawing a crooked smile to her lips, "Haven't died yet, despite what you want." And then there's that dismissal, her slight frame climbing atop Teonath, expertly, if painfully slow, "See you at home."
All the way out, Tiriana keeps sneaking looks at Satiet, looking constantly like she wants to say something but can't quite find a way to say it. And by the time they arrive at Teonath's side, she's given up, though Satiet's parting words draw a flinch from her. She glances away, and finally offers a rather small, "Good night," before she steps away to let the gold take off.
When: Day 21, Month 2, Turn 19
Where: Galleries, Fort Weyr
What: After Fort's hatching, the leaders of High Reaches pay their respects to Cirse.
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 Satiet's former 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.
Dragon> If Tiriana is somewhat lacking in greetings, Iovniath makes up for it, with a brush of soft white just at the edges of Peirith's mind; a non-intrusive greeting. << It was a lovely clutch, Peirith. Congratulations are in order, to you and your mate. >> (Iovniath to Peirith)
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.
Dragon> Some moments later, amid a sense of smooth, even exploratory flight, Peirith's attention rises and falls towards that soft whiteness, taking it up in a wave's effortless rush: << And do you give them, Iovniath? >> The junior queen can't be unfamiliar, with as much time spent on neighboring ledges as they are, and yet. But it's a pleasant-enough question, all but rhetorical, along with, << And do you stay, tonight. >> Perhaps they should... adopt her. (Peirith to Iovniath)
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."
Dragon> To Peirith, Iovniath, with a burst of amused sparks struck through that white, answers as though the question were a completely unnecessary thing. << Of course! --But tonight, no, no I do not think we shall, >> and her voice lilts apologetic almost, in the muting of its brightness. << It would not do, to intrude so upon Fort's eminence in this time. >>
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."
Dragon> Fort's Senior easily, even congenially assures, << I have not known you to be an intrusion, Iovniath. >> Indeed, could she ever be? (Peirith to Iovniath)
Dragon> To Peirith, Iovniath projects, << No? >> Iovniath's voice lightens again to hear it. But it seems to do little, still, to change her own mind, as she only says, << I am very glad to hear it. >>
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."
Dragon> It's rare for Teonath to make such requests of another dragon, but there it is, likely without her rider's knowledge, << She needs help back to the Weyr. >> Back to /her/ waiting in the bowl. And for High Reaches' senior queen to deign to plea, it's the quiet, << Please, >> that aims to convince Iovniath of the necessity that Tiriana fulfill this task than any blustering alarms. (Teonath to Iovniath)
"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.
Dragon> Attentive at once, Iovniath's mind touches Teonath with familiar cold, and she asks no questions. << Whatever you need of us, >> she answers, and though for a moment her presence flickers, indicative of contact with Tiriana, she is quick to assure, << We will help. >> (Iovniath to Teonath)
Dragon> To Iovniath, Peirith's acknowledgement of Iovniath's assurance is a pleasant wave that rises in a swell of dark blue-green and then is gone, taking her attention with it.
Dragon> To Iovniath, Teonath's gratitute is a wash of almost deferential rose coloring. Almost. After all, she's still senior to Iovniath's junior.
"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.
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.
Dragon> Even thanked so, Iovniath does not take that gratitude as dismissal: even now, as her rider hovers, her own cool mental touch remains just at the fringes of Teonath's, present and ready, though the questions she's too polite to voice hover there with her also. (Iovniath to Teonath)
N'thei steps out to the bowl.
N'thei has left.
That brief look has Cirse looking after his weyrwomen, after all, and not just those who are lining up to meet and greet. Satiet in particular, so thin, such furs, something about the way she moves and breathes, and then her taller but similarly-complected shadow... but then it's holders, more of her holders as they are now, holders whose harvests fed the hatching feast that some of them are about to eat, and so she turns to find a smile for them too.
She doesn't quite lean on Tiriana, but proud Satiet doesn't shake off the assistance at her elbow either and with the junior by her side, the pace does quicken a little. And when they arrive at the bowl to where a pale Teonath waits, High Reaches Weyrwoman reaches up to push Tiriana's hair behind her ear, and again states, simply, "Enjoy yourself." Perhaps the first words spoken to the younger woman since their last encounter. She even jokes, drawing a crooked smile to her lips, "Haven't died yet, despite what you want." And then there's that dismissal, her slight frame climbing atop Teonath, expertly, if painfully slow, "See you at home."
All the way out, Tiriana keeps sneaking looks at Satiet, looking constantly like she wants to say something but can't quite find a way to say it. And by the time they arrive at Teonath's side, she's given up, though Satiet's parting words draw a flinch from her. She glances away, and finally offers a rather small, "Good night," before she steps away to let the gold take off.