Logs:Breaking It Up
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| RL Date: 5 February, 2014 |
| Who: H'kon, R'hin, Bristia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Rowdy riders and those they answer to. Also, eyebrows. |
| Where: Lighthouse Deck, High Reaches hold |
| When: Day 2, Month 13, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
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| Lighthouse Deck, High Reaches Hold It's late evening when Arekoth receives the first, confused sort of image. The sharp, salty scent of the sea, mixed with yelling and the thwack of flesh-on-flesh, to rousing cheers and boo's alike. (Ghijurth has always been a tattle-tale, and usually not so recticent about sharing with his fellow wingmates.) Arekoth's interest is instantly piqued, a rising ribbon of yellow twisting, cracking in behind the noise of the crowd. « Where? » is a mixture of this excitement, and the reining influence of his rider. Silence, like static for a moment, then another rush of interest-and-concern from Ghijurth. Where? The view from the lighthouse deck is unmistakable if one has been there, but if not, the cliffs of High Reaches Hold is well-enough-known to any Reachian rider. Up along it's length, many dragons perch -- not just that of Alpine, but other figures, dark and watching in the evening, visibly only through the gleaming of whirling eyes. There. It's not so long before Arekoth appears in the sky, his excitement the more tempered by H'kon, so much as by action. They drop promptly, silently, Arekoth offering only a glimmer of mental touch, almost indistinguishable from the night sky, to his wingmates. H'kon's short legs can move quite quickly, when they want. And they move him right up to those stairs, though he needs more jump in his step than a taller man might, to take them two at a time. The stairs are, certainly, lengthy enough that even a fit man might well find themselves needing to take a breath at the top. Even as he's climbing though, a wall of noise filters downwards -- clapping and hollering, boos and laughter. The place is, unaccountably, packed with riders -- or at least it might seem that way at first glance. There's four or Alpine riders, three Savannah, and one of Snowdrift. One of the tables has been turned over, and there are smashed glasses on the floor, around which -- with the crunching of boots against glass, one of Alpine's riders, W'nol, looks to have started an impromptu sparring match with Savannah's E'rest. By the looks of them, a few blows have already traded places. Around the edges, in the dim light, it might take longer to notice some of the locals, cringing away from the action taking center stage. H'kon hasn't caught his breath, not yet, but he's had time enough to take in the scene. There's something to be said for a rider's training in assessment of a situation. First is Arekoth's reach for Leiventh, a crack of atmosphere carrying a very distinct between point, over the hold. « You are needed, » is all H'kon, if in his dragon's voice. Some Alpine riders on the outskirts have already begun to notice the wet blank- the wingsecond's arrival, that is - when H'kon straightens his shoulders and steps forward. That chill wind is not that far off the cold of between, winding through that image and whipping, faster now, through that atmospheric pressure. « We come, » the bronze acknowledges, simply, all Leiventh. He withdraws just as quickly, no further questioning. W'nol's sporting an already darkening eye, though he's smirking at his opponent: "You think you can teach me something, boy?" E'nest, lighter on his feet and younger to boot, has that certainty that only the youth have, his cocky response immediate: "If you weren't such a cheat, there'd be no lesson to give." Nevermind that he's got a split lip, already. The glass crunches under their feet as they circle again, one of the Savannah riders yelling, "Oh, would you two get it over already?", "We're starting to fall asleep in the backseat here!" adds one of the Alpine riders -- shortly before he notices H'kon, and with a darted look to the entrance, eases back as if preparing to make a break for it. H'kon makes no move to stop those other wingriders of his - not now, not when he knows their faces, where they live - as he moves to the edge of the circle. A sharp, parade-ground-loud, "Bluerider W'nol," has the crackle of Arekoth's skyfire in behind it, for all the wing, for W'nol's Baruth in particular. Arekoth, who has taken to the wing again, who stretches his talons forward and backwings for an imperious perch among the rest. That certainly serves to whip W'nol's head around. It also gives E'nest an opportunity to close in, and the bluerider only just catches the movement out of the corner of his eye in time. Both go down, struggling on the ground while they lay punches into each other. This earns some cheering, only subdued somewhat by H'kon's presence. Meanwhile, that other Alpine rider, whose Ghijurth was the tattle-tale, is already thumping down the stairs. « Yours, » to Leiventh, with H'kon's view of that younger rider patched in for good measure. Some of the other Alpine dragons - the bronze, the green - are starting to give off waves of solidarity. Baruth is notably silent, broody. "That is enough! is as much to E'nest than it is to W'nol. One hand aims sharply for his own wingrider's scruff; the other is an attempt to block the Monocoan. Again, Leiventh acknowledges with that chill drop of temperature, but otherwise doesn't seek to engage. H'kon's wading into the fight isn't apparently a well-liked move from the Savannah riders, a couple of them muttering and one of the others taking a warning step forward, rocking back onto his heels with eyes narrowed. E'nest's quick to try and push forward again, rather unsuccessfully, with his fist glancing off H'kon's hand. "Oh, that'd be right. Alpine, bunch of cheats, the lot of you." It... probably does what it's intended to do, which is make W'nol attempt to take another swing at the other rider, though this is somewhat difficult given the firm grip his wingsecond has on him.
W'nol, with teeth bared, lets himself be held back -- such that it is -- but that doesn't stop his growled, "He started it." E'nest's smirking deliberately, as if trying to provoke the bluerider, but he does at least seem to let H'kon take control of his rider, hands held loosely at his side as if waiting for another opportunity. More sounds: booted feet stomping up the staircase. R'hin's at the front, flanked by Bristia and K'son -- and the bronzerider's expression is set and tense, pausing in the entrance to take stock of the proceedings. The damage, in particular, has his mouth pressing into a thin line. "Bristia," he murmurs, with a nod at the locals -- the greenrider immediately heads over, asking for the person in charge. R'hin, with K'son in tow, heads for the group at the center, a questioning look in his gaze that's only partially on E'nest as much as H'kon. It's when W'nol takes a step back that H'kon releases him. The bluerider is free to tug at his shirt and regain his sense autonomy. Provided it's autonomy under the law of H'kon. H'kon himself is left scowling mightily, and once he's made himself certain that his rider, at any rate, will not start up again, that scowl gets turned to R'hin. On the cliffs, Arekoth is puffed up and scanning continually across the hold. His hold. His Weyr's Hold. "Looks like you have everything in hand. You needn't have called me," R'hin says lightly, in response to the scowl from H'kon. E'nest is touching a hand to his bloodied lip and giving dark looks in W'nol's direction, and only when R'hin looks at him does he say, "He was using weighted dice, or... something. No one's that lucky." When his Wingleader doesn't look convinced, he adds, "And then he called us dirty Monacoans!", to which W'nol is quick to retort from behind H'kon: "You called us incestual mountain men!" R'hin's expression is somewhere between, really? and thinly veiled amusement, meanwhile. Three Monacoan dragons -- bronze, brown and green -- are barely visible at the base of the lighthouse; they must have come in at a far lower approach over the sea, certainly not using the visualization given them by Arekoth. There might -- no, definitely -- is a snort of amusement from K'son, and the other Savannah riders. H'kon slides a look over to W'nol, and then faces back up to R'hin. "Your riders must answer to you," is firm but quiet, not at all the deep shout he'd found before. "Your presence," and here he looks over to the locals, with Bristia, yes, "is important." Those eyebrows lift, just slightly, once he's finished. And only then does H'kon tug at the bottom of his jacket. It's probably a dragon-relayed command that gets what Alpine riders remain to start righting furniture. H'kon's eyes don't leave R'hin, not again, not now. R'hin glances over his shoulder at E'nest, as if contemplatively, then back to H'kon. "I suppose they must." His response is an echo of H'kon's own phrasing, though whether that's deliberate or not isn't obvious. He, too, is studying the other rider intently in turn; maybe he's fascinated by the move of the brownrider's eyebrows. "I mean, granted, I lived at High Reaches a long time and I've never fucked a relative, but I've been away a long time." He shrugs, easily, oblivious to the snickering behind him. "And us Monacoans could use more baths, but it's so fucking cold up here. Shall we say, half each?" He swaps from one to the next topic with little warning, just a pointing of finger towards W'nol, then E'nest. "For damages. Bristia, I've no doubt, will ensure we can at least step foot in here again." The greenrider does seem to have gotten that older man she's talking to to at least smile, albeit accompanied by a darted glance over her shoulder at the other riders. H'kon's eyebrows are back down to disapproving for R'hin's levity, for all that at least one or two of his riders seems to appreciate it. Maybe not W'nol, but that greenrider... Back to business is where H'kon does better, the first, "Hm," contemplative, as the wingsecond turns, scanning the room, eyes resting on each of Alpine's riders present, and those no longer present certainly remembered, then settling a bit longer on W'nol. Whatever it was communicated in that look seems, at least, to have been received by the time H'kon is nodding. "Fair enough." For him, it's not a phrase; it's an assessment. There's no visible indication of any command on R'hin's part, but K'son's waving his fellow Savannah riders and moving to help with that righting of furniture. Stepping forward with a crunch of glass, the Savannah Wingleader offers a palm to H'kon, with the obvious intent of sealing that agreement. It also lets him murmur, with a dark chuckle, "Let us hope the Lord Holder doesn't hear and decide we're not welcome. We like some of the local made brews, and I hear he's given to that sort of thing." Banning riders, presumably, and not the fucking relatives part. Probably. H'kon gives R'hin one more once-over before he nods, once, curt. His handshake is just as formal as the rest of him, the eyebrows, the Face, the low, "Let us hope," that comes with that symbolic conclusion of the whole affair. The seriousness of the moment of H'kon's intervention has passed. The leftovers of Alpine are muttering, cleaning, halfway laughing. And when H'kon takes back his hand, he takes a step back, also. R'hin's still eyeballing H'kon as he drops his hand -- or more accurately, somewhere above the brownrider's eyeline, like he's distracted by those expressive eyebrows of his. Then, after H'kon's step back breaks his line of sight for a beat: "Oh, come now. The way Arekoth called Leiventh, I thought somebody was dead. It was a relief for it to just be a scrap." The scrap, as he calls it, is still being cleaned up, and Bristia definitely still looks busy smoothing things over. But, too, R'hin's equanimity suggests it's hardly the first time. If H'kon notices the disparity in their gazes, he, naturally, makes no comment, and simply holds his own. "We'd like have told you if someone was dead." There's something, a change that's not in those eyebrows, but in a ghost of a tug at the edge of his mouth - sidways, more than up or down. H'kon doesn't share. He does check on Bristia and the locals. "That's a relief to know." Except R'hin doesn't look relieved so much as amused. The locals look marginally more at ease now that the fight is over, and doesn't appear to be about to start again. One by one, Savannah's riders file out -- a couple, E'sren included, giving R'hin a jaunty salute and H'kon the barest of glances. K'son seems to be shepherding them out -- leaving Bristia, who is patting the owner's arm familiarly before throwing a glance over her shoulder at R'hin. "He's obliging," the bronzerider reports to the brownrider, "Though Saindyth tells Leiventh he hagggled. Remember the days when Holders did what we asked?" A pause, as he looks contemplatively at the roof, then snorts. "Oh, yes. Sorry. That never happened. My mistake." Alpine waits until those riders have made their way - and then wait a bit longer. That greenrider even sets a decent tip on that slightly-tidied table as Alpine's last act. See how much better they are? Even if they don't have Bristia? H'kon is back to watching R'hin, pensive more than guarded. "Perhaps discipline was better then, also," is soft, with a tone of chiding, though, he's turned as he says it, to watch the exodus of dragonriders. With a snort, R'hin disagrees: "Even when Thread fell and I commanded a full Flight against unpredictable falls, greenriders still gave me fucking lip. It's their perogative." His tone is somewhere between resignation and amusement, gaze lingering on Bristia. "Those days are long past. And a good fucking riddance to them." He, at least, is vehement on that score. From the Monacoan dragons, there's a wash of cold all of a sudden, like a splash of water, then gone as soon as it appeared. The Savannah rider acts like nothing happened, though rocks onto his heels as if on the verge of moving, as Bristia walks towards them. "We did not see Thread," H'kon provides as response, pressing his teeth together firmly once he's spoken. His shoulders tense, his back stiffens, about the same time as that cold is shared, Arekoth's response of sublimating cold kept, mostly, to the other High Reaches dragons - even the lone Snowdrifter. "I hope you're happy with yourself. I have a dinner date tomorrow," Bristia's saying as she nears, giving R'hin a sharp look -- H'kon too -- as if they're both somehow responsible. "I'm going to go box E'nest's ears." She stalks for the exit, earning a sigh from R'hin, who is wisely leaving H'kon's comment on Thread alone, and just as wisely: "I'd better stop her. E'nest probably wants to keep his balls." That seems to serve as farewell, since the bronzerider's just as quick to depart, the sounds of their booted feet retreating down the stairwell. At the base, Arekoth can see the Monacoan dragons gather -- though he'd be too far to hear words -- eventually the group of riders splits up to seek their respective dragons, disappearing moments after they reach the sky. |
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