Logs:B'yan Finally Gets What's What
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| RL Date: Some time in December, 2007 |
| Who: B'yan, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 1, Month 7, Turn 14 (Interval 10) |
| With the evening meal long over and done with, the caverns are now slowly becoming as bereft as the wild caverns beyond. It's late into the night that B'yan emerges from the water caverns, the clothes he wears sticking to his still-damp body and his boots being held in one hand. His other is rifling through the damp curls on his head as he pauses to look down hall both ways, the cover of the shadowy night and lack of glowbaskets seeming to place him in a furtive mood before he turns and starts to shuffle towards the bowl. Not furtive without cause. "Let's you and me have a talk." N'thei practically falls out of a corridor's terminal, at once arranged in step with B'yan so that he can clamp a big mitt on the other man's shoulder. Should anyone come along, it might look like a friendly gesture, but of course they wouldn't be able to see how hard his fingers grind against B'yan's collarbones, or the pressure employed to steer toward a dimly lit storeroom. Perhaps B'yan's mind was elsewhere, or he even expected the other Reachian to come upon him. His steps pause just once when N'thei falls into step with him from the shadows, the hand grating hard into his collarbones doing nothing other to make him cast a dark look in his direction. With a single tick at the corner of his mouth, "Sure," he grates out through bared teeth, eyes hard ahead of him as doesn't protest in the change in direction. "You can do all the talking. Start by apologizing to me." "We'll get to the script later." The room is small, crowded, and probably hasn't been used in at least a decade, lit only by the slant of glowbaskets that manage to drift in from the adjacent corridor. N'thei's palm moves to find a flat push against B'yan's back once they're both in the doorway, an effort to both have B'yan precede him into the room and likely to foul up his balance. B'yan takes a half-stumble from the push delivered, but turns once he enters the small and crowded room. Facing N'thei, keeping his back to the wall, "We get to the script -now-," he emphasizes coldly, a challenge ringing in his voice. Then, hands spreading out from him, as if taunting the other bronzerider to take a hit, "Unless you're foolish enough to take a swing at me, dear N'thei." His voice stays fluent and smooth, as if he talks of wine instead of the threat looming before him in the small room. His smile is forced, still baring teeth with his hands spread in silence from his body. N'thei follows hard on B'yan's heels, never more than a half-foot away. The big hands reach out once they're both in the little room, intent on grabbing him by the shirt front, on shoving him back to the wall next to the shelves full of dusty rags and old mop-handles. "Don't think you're in a position to make demands here. I want answers. You're going to start talking, or I'm going to start choking you." In the dark, with the light behind him, it's hard to see more than a smudge of grim features; he does not smile back. "You want answers from me?" B'yan lets N'thei take him by the shirt front to shove back against the wall, his hand instinctively grabbing ahold of one of the old mop handles. Tightening on it, "You choke me," he bites back coolly to him, his other hand attempting to grab him by the wrist as well, "and it'll be something you'll regret. Bet marks on it." There's warning, his body visibly tensing in wait of what's to come, hazel eyes never leaving the other's. Hair-trigger; "Yes, from you! " N'thei pulls forward on B'yan's shirt, then pushes back even harder, lets the rock wall do the work for him. "You sold us out, and I want to know why! Don't mistake me for A'son, don't mistake this for a Crom cell, you smug prick. --You plan to use that stick, you better hope you hit hard enough the first time." He braces an arm across B'yan's collarbones with a fistful of shirt; it would be all too easy for his forearm to migrate upward from here, across his throat. Defenseless position though. "Now talk." The slam against the wall, harder this time, gets just a puff of breath from B'yan as he looks hard back at his assailant. Boldly, slowly, he pushes his face right into N'thei's, the hand holding the stick reflexively rising up with it as if priming himself for attack. With his other hand biting into N'thei's wrist now, "I did not fucking betray you!" he spats back, some spittle probably hitting the other's face. "What do you want, a damn confession written on hide? My blood?" His voice getting lower, "I'm warning you," he says as calmly as he stays, save for the strain showing in his open neck for N'thei to take. "Back the fuck down. For the fact that I didn't get paid, and the fact that you -chose- not to listen to me, I should be the one coming at -you-." N'thei's hand twitches, wrist feeling the pinch; "/You/ are warning /me/?" Laughter barks hard back at B'yan, loud and close, and his elbow inches upward, arm going with it. Just when there's a chance to lay pressure across his adam's apple, both hands tighten on B'yan's shirt, and he pulls hard once more. This time, rather than slam back against the wall, he's set to let the momentum shove on and send the Wingsecond careening toward the next wall over, putting a "safe" distance between them, putting himself in the open door. "Your blood would be damn satisfying, but let's start with how you knew if you're not the sorry sack of shit that double-crossed us." Quickly winded, he folds his arms and glares over ragged breath. B'yan's smile is gone once N'thei starts to laugh, his chin lifting to expose more of his neck - as if daring the other to go for it. Instead, N'thei tighten his hold on his shirt and pulls him out to the next wall. His hand comes away from the mopstick and lets go, stumbling into some of the boxes stacked there and not paying any attention to the contents falling on the floor. Panting, making sure his back is once more to the wall as the distance between them has now lengthened, "That's right," he sneers, taking on a dark expression as he sizes N'thei up. "I'm warning -you-." His muscles bunch visibly in his arms as he still stays on defense, firming his stance in case the other decides to run at him. "I got eyes, don't I?" he mocks openly to the fate in Crom, to his abrupt run from the premises. "I saw what you saw. Not my fault you didn't have the balls to run when you saw the light in that room come on." Running a hand over his mouth, "'Sides, I warned you. I told you. You didn't listen, and now it's -my- fucking fault? I don't think so, son." Taking a dangerous step forward, "Call me what you want. Believe what you want. Come choke me now and be done with it!" Another step, "But you better kill me," he grates out, "for I'm not one that backs down. Your choice, since you won't see reason." Hands bunch at his sides, and the look on his eyes remains mocking. "What I saw? What I saw was you run, and run like a coward." N'thei's eyes drop to the fists at B'yan's sides, to the shortened distance between them, and he begins a slow shake of his head in response to it. "Who paid you? Was it Crom or Telgar? My money's on Telgar." He measures to his full height, draws up his fists in response; almost predestined anyway, certainly what should come as no surprise, he lets fly a left-handed punch. "No one paid me," B'yan answers flippantly, eyes narrowing. "Why the fuck would I want to do by Crom, or Telgar? I got no loya--" is all he lets out, for the fist coming has him ducking too late. It clips the side of his face as he brings up one of his own, swearing violently as he aims one low towards N'thei's gut. Side-stepping as he shakes his head irritably from the blow, "That's right," he grates, seeming to circle the other in the cramped room. "I'm foolish enough to accept Crom or Telgar marks. That's what you think? You're an amatuer, N'thei. You're lucky Lord Crom himself didn't rain down on you!" and he aims his other fist in quick succession. N'thei's not fast, not by any means, but he's built to take a few before he crumples. One in the gut, grunt, one in the kidney, growl. The problem is, now he's back in close quarters with B'yan and enough fights have taught him to use size to his advantage. Already partially bent from getting punched, he lowers his shoulder to the middle of B'yan's chest and plows forward, this time meant to slam into the wall full-force. He answers no quips, makes no return argument; fighting is Serious Business. B'yan grunts, hardly paying much attention to the fact that his fists actually connected with the man before N'thei's shoulder slams into the middle of his chest. His breath gets knocked out in a whoosh, the wall hitting his back painfully enough to give him a half-second pause. It doesn't stop him, however, for the wingsecond is launching himself off from the wall with a cry, lowering his head and aiming a blow towards N'thei's abdomen. While the momentum betrays that the wall-slam did little to him, his breath is choppy now and his curses more severe than before. It's the best N'thei can do, while taking another blow to ribs that have barely had time to heal from his last severe beating, to collar B'yan again. A big fist with a handful of fabric holds him only a second before the other fist wheels around, the idea to hold him in place long enough for knuckles to connect with jaw. Sweat-and-wheeze replace stick-and-move. With B'yan keeping to the gut, trying to force N'thei to his knees, has his shirt taken up again. He wrenches, trying to get out of the bigger man's grasp, and the knuckles connecting to his jaw gives that tall-tale crick of something breaking. He slams himself back from the blow, bunching up his knee and aiming it to slam into N'thei's privates if it connects in an attempt to back up. There's a gurgle of a wheeze coming through parted lips, hazel eyes darkened to a murderous glare as he launches himself behind his knee to slam into the other hard and tries to knock him off his footing. "Son of a bitch!" That's three. Three times. N'thei doubles over completely with a last-ditch fling of his elbow toward B'yan's teeth; but his fight's been out-dirtied and that's as far as the big guy can take it, face red and eyes streaming. Kicked in the nuts-- again! He staggers backward to the wall with his own weight and B'yan's, coughs up curses like bile. B'yan didn't stop with that, and something is clearly wrong with his jaw since no words are coming forth from the usually-talkative bronzerider. With N'thei staggering back, that leads him on, grabbing at the other's shirt and wrenching it forward with his other hand balled into a fist. At the exact same time, N'thei's elbow connects to his mouth as his own fist aims for his nose, the force given snapping his head back with blood spurting from the side of his mouth. Now comes N'thei's blood, poured out fast and easy from the barely-healed split down his nostril, reopened with a vengeance. The added-bonus blood from N'thei's knuckles smears all over B'yan's shirt. With a last force, with both hands against B'yan's shoulders, he shoves hard to fling the slighter man away, to put such distance between them that even weak-and-winded N'thei would have time to get clear. "Enough!" The smaller bronzerider: his one eye black, the side of his face darkened, blood pouring from the side of his mouth with his lips bared back into a seemingly-permanent snarl - seems to revel in the connection his fist makes to N'thei's nose this time around, the sight of blood showing pleasure in his eyes. He looks to keep going, however, until the other pushes him forcefully away. With the hits he had taken, this time the push causes him to stumble and fall against the wall with more heavy force than was given, and the wingsecond slides down panting to sit on the floor. Blood covers the front of his shirt and hands, that one word from the other seeming to click something from him as the fight leaves him and he slumps to the left a bit. His jaw clearly giving him pain since his voice is raspy and strained, "You ...son of a bitch," he finally speaks, eyes being the only 'live' thing on him that is staring back hard at him. N'thei tries to staunch the blood from his nose with the side of his hand, head tilted back while red leaks over his wrist in big drops on to the floor. With a nasally voice, affected by the fucked up state of his nostrils, "Cry me a fucking river, traitor." He rests against the wall while he regains enough tattered breath to slide back to his height, to attempt to stand and find a handkerchief in his pockets. Still full of disdain; "I'll see you at drills, sir." Slowly, B'yan stays a hand against the wall and pulls himself up to his feet. He lets his blood spill, too wired up to let the stiffness of his body relax as long as N'thei was before him. Panting through bloody lips, "You...are beyond apologies," he breathes to him darkly. "When I find the one that betrayed me, you will owe me for this insult." He emphasizes the 'me' instead of saying 'us'. He takes a tentative step to the side as if about to leave, N'thei's last words getting, "Better not be you that's really...the traitor, wingrider. Better not be..." Drills do not get no response, and the wingsecond is starting slowly for the door. N'thei stands aside, damage done. He could really take a chunk out of B'yan from this angle... but no. Holding his nose, he lets the man pass without further assailment. With no threat seeming to come, B'yan stumps out the door and on pass he doesn't give any looks in his direction. A hand is going to his side as he walks for a few moments, but this ceases once he enters the caverns and emerges into public view. Even if there was no one to see him, the bronzerider straightens as far as he could with his head held high, picks up the boots he had dropped on the way in, and lets the sound of his feet hitting the ground be the last to hear from him. |
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