Log: Breakfast Before Dawn, #3
RL: June 3, 2008.
VR: Day 11, month 8, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a summer before dawn.
(Original log from Satiet)
Satiet. Leova. Fruit.
South Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
Opposite the dramatic but sharp spikes of the Seven Spindles, the south rim of the bowl has a unobstructed view down into the bowl itself in addition to views as far southwest as Pars Hold and across the Esay Valley to as far southeast as Nabol Hold on clear days. Although it is moderately flat for a number of dragonlengths around the gradual arc of the south side of the bowl, the rim still has hollows, crags, and precipices which are dusted with the silicate quartz embedded in much of the rock of the bowl. The stony rim is roughly four dragonlengths across before it drops precipitously to deep chasms to either side of the rim.
The sun hasn't risen yet, but there's a glow of radiant dawn's line along the eastern horizon. Up on the southern rim of the bowl, the mountain plateau is wide enough for one pale queen to look over her domain, pleased, and her dark-haired rider, sweat drying on her brow, to sit, sprawled, with a satchel. The rounded top of a crusty morning bread and the top of a thermos are visible while the bulky shape of a block of cheese protrudes from deep within the bag. Up here, the wind is cool enough to warrant the blanket that covers Satiet's knees.
No sweat for the woman who's slipping down her dragon's neck, small sack of her own in hand, just moments after the rangy green lands: that will come later, after errands all over Tillek and Seacraft during what promises to be another warm day. Now Vrianth's near-silent, not even a warble to ring through the wind's whisper, but there's electric greeting for Teonath before she wings back into the air again. Leova can't help but sigh, watching her, before turning back to approach along what's becoming a familiar path.
Silent, as if expecting Vrianth's arrival, Satiet leans all the more leisurely against Teonath's side, her legs drawn up as rests for her arms. It's the sigh that breaks nature's silence of winds and birds, of the slow inch of the sun's rise and the clouds moving in the sky, that echoes in the weyrwoman's alto; a breath eased out and a thin smile favored the woman who approaches. Teonath drops her head and spreads her wings narrow away from her body in tacit acknowledge of the green's electricity, but doesn't move otherwise from her repose.
Overhead, Vrianth circles once before vanishing up into the grey skies. Though she'd perched before, today is different: perhaps something on those winds, perhaps a presentiment of fall--of autumn, at least--on its way. Her rider settles easily onto the stone, heedless of dirt or pebbles there, close enough to make room for the little sack between them but still with plenty of breathing room. And then she tilts its mouth toward Satiet in silent invitation, for the other woman to pull out what she will. There's fruit there, primarily, though also a rolled-up hide near the bottom.
From her own satchel the bread is taken out and broken into too large chunks, both balanced in her lap, while the cheese is split. Bread and cheese hunks are offered in exchange as one free hand paws at the fruit. The hide is yet unfound, or simply untouched. "Leova," greets the raven-haired woman. Humored, "Again." Today is indeed different, a fact Teonath takes note of in the stretch of her neck upwards that snakes towards Vrianth's disappearance into the skies. Whirling eyes watch, waiting long enough to give the green time to reappear somewhere.
Leova wipes her palms on her knees before starting in on the layering. "Finally remembered to bring something, too," she says with something of a smile of her own, though there's sleepiness too there, a just-rolled-out-of-bed rumpledness to her hair. "How's the air feel to you?" It's some time before Vrianth does reappear, out from behind one of the Spindles, weaving through them in lazy swoops that warm night-chilled muscles. Her rider can't help but look back over her shoulder, then at Teonath, at Satiet once more.
Teonath's watch is rewarded when Vrianth reappears, however belatedly, catching sight of the lazy streak of olive in the skies near the Spindles; a mother's doting satisfied. "Muggy," opines the weyrwoman, nibbling first on the cheese, then setting it into the spread skirt of her lap for the bread. "Was cooler a few days ago but I suppose it means rain'll be coming soon." Her chin tips up, a smile slow to spread and thin, but at least present. "Didn't have to. Always bring more than enough." Why? No reason forthcoming but a shrug. "But the fruit's good."
"Didn't have to," Leova agrees mildly, the corners of her mouth turning up. Didn't have to. Did anyway. And she eats quietly for a little while, slowly, nothing like the ravenous hurry of weyrlinghood, though when crumbs fall onto her own lap she's not shy about just flicking them off onto the stone. Her face turns up to that sky, to what she can see with her own eyes and what Vrianth can tell her. Clouds. Clouds coming. Not the same clouds as before, muggy, stuffy, without the same electric potential.
Speaking of the unnecessary offerings, Satiet again reaches into the bag, rifling through it to unearth a slightly bruised plum and then further to brush against the hide, pausing, then bringing it to the top of the bag, noticeable, but not out of it just yet. "Years ago, someone left a basket of fruit in my weyr. A gift. I think. Strawberries, peaches, some things untithed or grown in the area. I've always liked fruit."
"You think." It's enough to bring Leova's eyes back down, even as she has another bite, bread and cheese always together and never ever on their own. "'S a nice gift, seems like. Or whatever it was... Don't get much fruit around seaholds, least the ones I've been by." She reaches to set the hide on the stone near them, not quite between them, where it can wait its turn without more than its usual share of crumbs.
Leova's placement of the hide is noted, slanted gaze taking it in quickly, before pale eyes pin onto the rising sun to the east. "Usually," notes the weyrwoman, "People who give gifts tell you sometime, at some point, it was a gift." Wryly, the alto lilts in an odd staccato, as if putting her thoughts together as she speaks, "What point is there of a gift you don't know was enjoyed or appreciated and there's no one to appreciate for it? Is that too selfish of me to say that?"
Leova doesn't herself look toward the sun, not even sidelong, not even through her lashes. "So you never did find out." The savories half-eaten, she leans back on a palm, fruit in her free hand. She says to its bitten flesh, slowly, her own pauses in the air, "What point... Maybe. Maybe, the point is to give. A surprise. For the person, not for you. Or maybe so the person will wonder. Or maybe, even, so the person will find you out. If she wants to." Her glance slides to Satiet. "Seems like it could be hard to give a weyrwoman something, when she could have about anything."
Leova speaks to the fruit. Satiet bites into it, posing a question as she chews slowly. "So what do you give a woman who can have anything? Everything. If she wanted."
A sidelong glance. "A break," Leova says. "Sailing." A bite. "Except that could demand too much, right there."
A moment is granted that, amused that her own words return to her in such a way. She agrees, "Everything but that." Or, Satiet's chin drops to draw attention once more to that hide drawn out, "That?"
Attention drawn, Leova looks. "Ah, that." She brings the fruit up to her mouth, teeth prising pit from flesh before resting both in her palm again. "Just to pass along. If you don't mind. Found it in the weyr, and it's not as though those meetings bring me by, any more." Her glance has fallen and she hesitates, but does not eat.
"Pass along. Found. Weyr." The keywords are repeated slowly, an attempt to piece together Leova's cryptic thoughts and hesitations into something -- nothing. Satiet's dark lashes follow Leova's down and unable to find more there, lifts to study the greenrider's face. Her emphasis is subtle, an attempt at light humor: "A difficult 'gift' to give?"
Leading to Leova's own attempt to parse, eyes lifting. Bright. She runs with it. "Already gave him back the boots. A boot." Just a hide, a once-crumpled hide, straightened and rolled but still with the marks that leather never can let go. Tied with a bit of string, easy to undo, unsealed. "Might be even less important. But it's not as though I recognized the handwriting, anyway. You might."
What she's surmised is cemented when Leova speaks again and Satiet reaches for the hide on the stone, holding it delicately between two fingers by the tied string. "Looked at it? Might've belonged to-..." A pause. A shake of her head as attempts to recall the former former owner fails.
"'Dear bronzerider,'" Leova supplies. "All there was. Unfortunately. That, and a big winestain." Her shrug is brief, and she says before tossing the pit overhand and away, "Didn't feel right scraping it down, anyway. 'Sides, the stain might not scrape off."
The fingers that hold out the hide seem to have half a mind to drop it again, but that second's hesitation instead turns into Satiet tucking the hide into her bread-crumb strewn bag. "Doubt he misses it. Doesn't seem the sentimental sort. But I'll see what I can do." She'll see; doesn't mean she'll act. But Leova's possession of the hide draws a curious question from the raven-haired woman, posed as glossy curls swing with the turn of her head. "Does it feel like your home yet?"
"Out of my hands." Leova even displays hers, palm up, just a wedge of a fruit remaining in one, the other gritty with what dirt the wind allows to stay up here. "My home? I think so. More and more. Some changes still to make, maybe. Lot to rattle around in, but it's good for company."
"Still changes?" Curious and more curious, but it's a question best left to another time as Teonath rouses, an internal schedule prompting the lissome queen to stretch out her limbs and wings. The gold's motions force Satiet to move, rolling out of the way of her dragon's deliberately 'careless' movements and getting to her knees at least, then to her feet. As for substantial space, she remarks, "Could fit most my home's common area into my weyr."
"No reason not to. Shouldn't ever have to leave." Beyond that there's Teonath: and Satiet there, on her knees. And it's not that Leova doesn't hunch over, out of those wings' way, but perhaps she relies on that small distance to make up the difference, or perhaps just on not being targeted enough. She glances up at the queen's eyes, checking for any humor there that the lines of her body hadn't provided. "Your home." Old home? Back to Satiet, "Good flying, the both of you." And she'll sit there herself, and finish breaking her fast, until Vrianth at last comes back down to her again.
Satiet slings the satchel with her remnant food and wine-stained letter over her shoulder, casting a look to Teonath; a look that says everything that doesn't need to be spoken aloud. "The home of my parents," elaborates the older woman. The sun hasn't quite risen completely, just visible over the horizon's edge now. "Clear skies, Leova." A nod and brisk steps, as well as turns practiced maneuvers to navigate her dragon's side, all culminate into the dragon and her rider departing for the ground.
VR: Day 11, month 8, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a summer before dawn.
(Original log from Satiet)
Satiet. Leova. Fruit.
South Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
Opposite the dramatic but sharp spikes of the Seven Spindles, the south rim of the bowl has a unobstructed view down into the bowl itself in addition to views as far southwest as Pars Hold and across the Esay Valley to as far southeast as Nabol Hold on clear days. Although it is moderately flat for a number of dragonlengths around the gradual arc of the south side of the bowl, the rim still has hollows, crags, and precipices which are dusted with the silicate quartz embedded in much of the rock of the bowl. The stony rim is roughly four dragonlengths across before it drops precipitously to deep chasms to either side of the rim.
The sun hasn't risen yet, but there's a glow of radiant dawn's line along the eastern horizon. Up on the southern rim of the bowl, the mountain plateau is wide enough for one pale queen to look over her domain, pleased, and her dark-haired rider, sweat drying on her brow, to sit, sprawled, with a satchel. The rounded top of a crusty morning bread and the top of a thermos are visible while the bulky shape of a block of cheese protrudes from deep within the bag. Up here, the wind is cool enough to warrant the blanket that covers Satiet's knees.
No sweat for the woman who's slipping down her dragon's neck, small sack of her own in hand, just moments after the rangy green lands: that will come later, after errands all over Tillek and Seacraft during what promises to be another warm day. Now Vrianth's near-silent, not even a warble to ring through the wind's whisper, but there's electric greeting for Teonath before she wings back into the air again. Leova can't help but sigh, watching her, before turning back to approach along what's becoming a familiar path.
Silent, as if expecting Vrianth's arrival, Satiet leans all the more leisurely against Teonath's side, her legs drawn up as rests for her arms. It's the sigh that breaks nature's silence of winds and birds, of the slow inch of the sun's rise and the clouds moving in the sky, that echoes in the weyrwoman's alto; a breath eased out and a thin smile favored the woman who approaches. Teonath drops her head and spreads her wings narrow away from her body in tacit acknowledge of the green's electricity, but doesn't move otherwise from her repose.
Overhead, Vrianth circles once before vanishing up into the grey skies. Though she'd perched before, today is different: perhaps something on those winds, perhaps a presentiment of fall--of autumn, at least--on its way. Her rider settles easily onto the stone, heedless of dirt or pebbles there, close enough to make room for the little sack between them but still with plenty of breathing room. And then she tilts its mouth toward Satiet in silent invitation, for the other woman to pull out what she will. There's fruit there, primarily, though also a rolled-up hide near the bottom.
From her own satchel the bread is taken out and broken into too large chunks, both balanced in her lap, while the cheese is split. Bread and cheese hunks are offered in exchange as one free hand paws at the fruit. The hide is yet unfound, or simply untouched. "Leova," greets the raven-haired woman. Humored, "Again." Today is indeed different, a fact Teonath takes note of in the stretch of her neck upwards that snakes towards Vrianth's disappearance into the skies. Whirling eyes watch, waiting long enough to give the green time to reappear somewhere.
Leova wipes her palms on her knees before starting in on the layering. "Finally remembered to bring something, too," she says with something of a smile of her own, though there's sleepiness too there, a just-rolled-out-of-bed rumpledness to her hair. "How's the air feel to you?" It's some time before Vrianth does reappear, out from behind one of the Spindles, weaving through them in lazy swoops that warm night-chilled muscles. Her rider can't help but look back over her shoulder, then at Teonath, at Satiet once more.
Teonath's watch is rewarded when Vrianth reappears, however belatedly, catching sight of the lazy streak of olive in the skies near the Spindles; a mother's doting satisfied. "Muggy," opines the weyrwoman, nibbling first on the cheese, then setting it into the spread skirt of her lap for the bread. "Was cooler a few days ago but I suppose it means rain'll be coming soon." Her chin tips up, a smile slow to spread and thin, but at least present. "Didn't have to. Always bring more than enough." Why? No reason forthcoming but a shrug. "But the fruit's good."
"Didn't have to," Leova agrees mildly, the corners of her mouth turning up. Didn't have to. Did anyway. And she eats quietly for a little while, slowly, nothing like the ravenous hurry of weyrlinghood, though when crumbs fall onto her own lap she's not shy about just flicking them off onto the stone. Her face turns up to that sky, to what she can see with her own eyes and what Vrianth can tell her. Clouds. Clouds coming. Not the same clouds as before, muggy, stuffy, without the same electric potential.
Speaking of the unnecessary offerings, Satiet again reaches into the bag, rifling through it to unearth a slightly bruised plum and then further to brush against the hide, pausing, then bringing it to the top of the bag, noticeable, but not out of it just yet. "Years ago, someone left a basket of fruit in my weyr. A gift. I think. Strawberries, peaches, some things untithed or grown in the area. I've always liked fruit."
"You think." It's enough to bring Leova's eyes back down, even as she has another bite, bread and cheese always together and never ever on their own. "'S a nice gift, seems like. Or whatever it was... Don't get much fruit around seaholds, least the ones I've been by." She reaches to set the hide on the stone near them, not quite between them, where it can wait its turn without more than its usual share of crumbs.
Leova's placement of the hide is noted, slanted gaze taking it in quickly, before pale eyes pin onto the rising sun to the east. "Usually," notes the weyrwoman, "People who give gifts tell you sometime, at some point, it was a gift." Wryly, the alto lilts in an odd staccato, as if putting her thoughts together as she speaks, "What point is there of a gift you don't know was enjoyed or appreciated and there's no one to appreciate for it? Is that too selfish of me to say that?"
Leova doesn't herself look toward the sun, not even sidelong, not even through her lashes. "So you never did find out." The savories half-eaten, she leans back on a palm, fruit in her free hand. She says to its bitten flesh, slowly, her own pauses in the air, "What point... Maybe. Maybe, the point is to give. A surprise. For the person, not for you. Or maybe so the person will wonder. Or maybe, even, so the person will find you out. If she wants to." Her glance slides to Satiet. "Seems like it could be hard to give a weyrwoman something, when she could have about anything."
Leova speaks to the fruit. Satiet bites into it, posing a question as she chews slowly. "So what do you give a woman who can have anything? Everything. If she wanted."
A sidelong glance. "A break," Leova says. "Sailing." A bite. "Except that could demand too much, right there."
A moment is granted that, amused that her own words return to her in such a way. She agrees, "Everything but that." Or, Satiet's chin drops to draw attention once more to that hide drawn out, "That?"
Attention drawn, Leova looks. "Ah, that." She brings the fruit up to her mouth, teeth prising pit from flesh before resting both in her palm again. "Just to pass along. If you don't mind. Found it in the weyr, and it's not as though those meetings bring me by, any more." Her glance has fallen and she hesitates, but does not eat.
"Pass along. Found. Weyr." The keywords are repeated slowly, an attempt to piece together Leova's cryptic thoughts and hesitations into something -- nothing. Satiet's dark lashes follow Leova's down and unable to find more there, lifts to study the greenrider's face. Her emphasis is subtle, an attempt at light humor: "A difficult 'gift' to give?"
Leading to Leova's own attempt to parse, eyes lifting. Bright. She runs with it. "Already gave him back the boots. A boot." Just a hide, a once-crumpled hide, straightened and rolled but still with the marks that leather never can let go. Tied with a bit of string, easy to undo, unsealed. "Might be even less important. But it's not as though I recognized the handwriting, anyway. You might."
What she's surmised is cemented when Leova speaks again and Satiet reaches for the hide on the stone, holding it delicately between two fingers by the tied string. "Looked at it? Might've belonged to-..." A pause. A shake of her head as attempts to recall the former former owner fails.
"'Dear bronzerider,'" Leova supplies. "All there was. Unfortunately. That, and a big winestain." Her shrug is brief, and she says before tossing the pit overhand and away, "Didn't feel right scraping it down, anyway. 'Sides, the stain might not scrape off."
The fingers that hold out the hide seem to have half a mind to drop it again, but that second's hesitation instead turns into Satiet tucking the hide into her bread-crumb strewn bag. "Doubt he misses it. Doesn't seem the sentimental sort. But I'll see what I can do." She'll see; doesn't mean she'll act. But Leova's possession of the hide draws a curious question from the raven-haired woman, posed as glossy curls swing with the turn of her head. "Does it feel like your home yet?"
"Out of my hands." Leova even displays hers, palm up, just a wedge of a fruit remaining in one, the other gritty with what dirt the wind allows to stay up here. "My home? I think so. More and more. Some changes still to make, maybe. Lot to rattle around in, but it's good for company."
"Still changes?" Curious and more curious, but it's a question best left to another time as Teonath rouses, an internal schedule prompting the lissome queen to stretch out her limbs and wings. The gold's motions force Satiet to move, rolling out of the way of her dragon's deliberately 'careless' movements and getting to her knees at least, then to her feet. As for substantial space, she remarks, "Could fit most my home's common area into my weyr."
"No reason not to. Shouldn't ever have to leave." Beyond that there's Teonath: and Satiet there, on her knees. And it's not that Leova doesn't hunch over, out of those wings' way, but perhaps she relies on that small distance to make up the difference, or perhaps just on not being targeted enough. She glances up at the queen's eyes, checking for any humor there that the lines of her body hadn't provided. "Your home." Old home? Back to Satiet, "Good flying, the both of you." And she'll sit there herself, and finish breaking her fast, until Vrianth at last comes back down to her again.
Satiet slings the satchel with her remnant food and wine-stained letter over her shoulder, casting a look to Teonath; a look that says everything that doesn't need to be spoken aloud. "The home of my parents," elaborates the older woman. The sun hasn't quite risen completely, just visible over the horizon's edge now. "Clear skies, Leova." A nod and brisk steps, as well as turns practiced maneuvers to navigate her dragon's side, all culminate into the dragon and her rider departing for the ground.