Logs:Brogiveness
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| RL Date: 17 December, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, R'sig, V'ros |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Brogiveness comes at a cost. |
| Where: Workout Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 6, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Backdated to fit in better with 'after they got their asses kicked'. |
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| Workout Room, High Reaches Weyr High Reaches' workout room is certainly not quiet by any means, considering the grunts and thwacks and murmurs that tend to be present at all times of the day, but V'ros' portion of the wall he's holding up is remarkably quiet in comparison to the rest of the cavern. He's leaning against the smooth stone, looking out as place as he does, with a loose sweater and pants on; he watches away people come and go, his brown eyes shuttered, his expression brooding. The brownrider won't stay all by his lonesome on the wall for long; A'rist gets there quite promptly, wiping crumbs from the badass (okay, not) little moustache hairs that are growing on his lip, that have yet to be shaved after a restday and this morning, and then scrubbing the palms of his hands on his pants. Breakfast must have been delicious. V'ros gets an upward nod, and the bronzerider heads over, toward the mats. "Hey. You're here." Pleased enough. A'rist's arrival is noted and his brownriding friend gives a little start, pushing away from the wall, but ultimately, standing awkwardly nearby. "Yeah. I figured.. after the last time.." V'ros scratches his neck as his forehead gets all crinkly from thinking too hard; if he notices the mustache or the crumbs, he's not commenting, though he does gesture to the cavern, at large. "I could use the lesson. Where's R'sig?" The nod, downward, this time, is approval. "R'sig's always late, is where R'sig is," says the non-absentee bronzerider. "But I like getting here. Getting the space, stretching out and warming up some. I mean, I know you don't get to do that, in a fight, but..." Brown eyes have settled on V'ros, A'rist's fingers paused where they'd reached to the base of his shirt, ready to strip it off. "You like... better now? Anyway?" A considering glance spans the entryway, like R'sig would appear, just as suddenly, while they're talking about him. "How do you.. stretch? How we did for weyrlinghood? Normal stretches?" He looks back at A'rist - he, obviously, has no idea what he's doing. His face becomes slightly more abashed, his eyes almost-not meeting A'rist's with that question. "Mostly, yeah. Still a few bruises, but.. you?" This last bit earnestly, of genuine concern. "Yeah... Just... arms and legs, especially the hip ones, and like... kind of get your abs," and one hand lets go of his shirt to make a fist and thump-thump on his abdomen, "woken up, so that when you fall you don't hurt anything. You know." There's a bit of a hesitation, now they're talking about bruises and things, but A'rist makes a determined face, re-grabs his shirt, and tugs it off. Anything that is visible on him is just yellowish marks, now. Healing! "Kind of the same." Next, the belt. Yes, he has shorts just for sparring on underneath. "Doesn't really feel too tender anymore." These two are a study in contrasts, being that V'ros elects to keep on his sweater and pants for this event; no one needs to see any of that, of his, anyway. "Okay," he says, drawing out the 'y' sound, while he bends his arm up behind his head to stretch. "It could have been a lot worse," he mumbles, switching his arms so he can stretch the left too. "They could have killed us." Because lingering over the would-if's is a thing, and V'ros likes to do it. A'rist surely notices V'ros' continued sweater-wearing. So he stands up straighter, and ups his chin some, and sends a look around the workout room... where no one, of course, is actually looking at them, except maybe the one pair who are thinking about trying to steal their mat space. A'rist steps on said mat. Mine. "No, they couldn't have," brings his attention back to V'ros. "Lythronath wouldn't let them." Which has him tilting his head. "Where was Zmeyth, anyway?" "No?" V'ros takes a peek of his friend, before putting his feet together and leaning down to stretch that way. "Zmeyth.." he sighs, "was around, watching. He says it will help toughen me up. He's.. sometimes I wonder.." Frowning, he stands and twists right and left, for the sides, "..why him? He's.. different and not.. like me.. not like.. Lythronath.. not like anyone." His shoulders lift in a shrug, dropping just as shortly, fingers picking up his sagging waistband as he takes a step forward, onto that mat A'rist is claiming; he shoots another look at the entrance - R'sig? A'rist might be channeling his dragon in a little bit of a snort at that explanation... but he shrugs, once it's had more time to process. "Then you weren't in any trouble, and Lynner kept me from getting worse than I did." He seems to have forgotten they're waiting for someone at all. He is now looking at V'ros, and can't quite keep, "But what the hell, man," off his lips. "There were three of them on me." A wince follows the snort, V'ros's eyes dropping to the mat in shame. They lift at the end, his mouth falling open and working silently. He has to shake his head to get control of his own facilities, barely able to look A'rist in the face. "I don't know what I'm doing, A'rist. I just.." He holds a breath and then lets it out, forceably, "..but I should have. Done something. I should have.." He pauses - to think? "Helped. You." A'rist doesn't hold on to that indignation for too long. The acknowledgement of... inaction, or whatever it is, is enough to placate him. "We could've taken 'em," is the final consideration. "You're here now, anyway," manages to sound much, much older than A'rist's whole eighteen turns of experience. He looks toward the door as well, now, where still there's no R'sig. Back to V'ros: "You really gonna keep all that on? Lots of girls like seeing a guy kinda marked up, you know." Though A'rist isn't indignant, V'ros isn't as easy to let go of his shame, which hands around him like a mantle. "I don't know. There were a lot of them and they had.. runners," he mumbles with a grimace, and follows the bronzeriders' gaze to the entryway again; damn you, R'sig. As for stripping for the ladies: "You think?" He starts looking around, tentatively, obviously searching for any girls to even consider giving him the appraising stare. Well, there's that one bluerider over there, who could probably kick both their asses... and then the brownrider doing squats, she's not bad, especially if you like a little badunkadunk, like A'rist does. "Shows you're tough," A'rist nods. "Heard Azaylia's really into that sort of thing. And this one greenrider in Taiga, you got a knife scar, she'll totally cream her shorts just looking at you." It might be a little overdone. It might be overdone on purpose. A'rist even sends a playful punch at V'ros' shoulder. See? Brogiveness. "I don't think the Weyrwoman cares what I do," V'ros mutters, but he's still casting around, listening with half an ear. When he does turn back to A'rist, he definitely doesn't look like he'd be interested in seeing that one greenrider cream her shorts, no. His shoulder moves with the punch, and while he laughs at the action, his hand reaching to rub the spot tells a different story; of a playful punch even being too much. But, he will, with a lot a hemming-and-hawing, and suspicious glances around, remove his own sweater - all pale and skinny and slightly bruised underneath. "Feels weird," the brownrider grumbles, peering at the bluerider to see if she noticed, which she hasn't. "That's just 'cause you haven't been here before." A'rist probes the knuckles of his play-punch hand lightly, considering the brownrider. No apology is offered, though. There's not even time for one, really. R'sig arrives, with half a bun in his mouth, stripping before he's even reached the mats, all muscly and with what looks like a knife scar, and sporting some fantastic bedhead. "Tryin' to even up the fight?" is tossed to A'rist. V'ros just gets a grin, around that piece of bread. Good luck, boys. V'ros is still looking around - and being quite obvious about it - when the R'sig arrives, knife-scar and all. He gets a dubious stare from the brownrider, which flicks to A'rist, but he'll give the older dragonrider a stilted nod of greeting in swift order. "R'sig, hey, I just.." his fingers flex, "..wanted to learn and you.. two have a thing going.." Yeah, that. He looks to A'rist for a better explanation; at least one of them is good at words, right? Maybe. R'sig deals with the rest of that bun, while asking (with a mass of half-chewed dough in one side of his mouth), "You from the last clutch?" A'rist has suddenly become good and dutiful, making sure the mats are all set up properly, all as attached as they can be, so nothing slides and no one breaks an elbow or anything. Though he does toss up, "That's V'ros," quite helpfully. "Yeah, I'm.. V'ros," the brownrider says, following up on A'rist's answer, but gives a little more since R'sig is asking. "From the last.. yeah, but not Iesaryth's." He has a frown for the last, which doesn't last given they're about to spar in the workout room and mourning the dead wouldn't be appropriate, exactly. "I've never.. done this, but I need to." No excuses, no more, just, what he needs, as he watches A'rist set up their mats so dutifully. "Shit," says R'sig, scrubbing at his hair (it continues to stand up), and then running his tongue over his teeth for any remaining bits of bun. "What do they even teach you kids in weyrlinghood anymore? Knitting?" He smirks at his own joke. A'rist gets back to his feet, and pads over to the other two. "Both still kind of bruised up from Nabol." R'sig seems to know what it is A'rist's talking about. "So just like... basics. Defensive stuff for now, I guess. Getting out of holds, may-" which gets cut off by R'sig flapping his hand at the bronzerider. "Might as well bust the cherry and have you start first, huh?" That's for V'ros. V'ros is displeased by R'sig's suggestion. "Quinlys is alright." No knitting, but no fighting, either. He remains silent while A'rist talks, and after, looks questioningly at R'sig. "Wha.. what!?" His eyes widen and he simply.. stares, at R'sig. "Me? Now? First.. wh.. why? Shouldn't.. A'ris.." He stops himself, swallows - because, getting out of the same old patterns requires initiative - and throws back his shoulders; he's anxious. "Okay.. so.. what?" "Yup," says R'sig, "that's howcome." All that stuttering, there. V'ros gets a grin, and R'sig backs up, confidently, onto the mats. A 'come hither' sort of finger beckons the brownrider. "So what do you do when a guy's coming at you? We'll deal with when he's going after your boyfriend later." A'rist gives R'sig the finger, naturally. V'ros shoots A'rist a 'what have you gotten me into' look, but does take a few steps onto the mat, following that finger gesture. "I.. would run. Or, hide." That being the natural reaction when he sees someone coming to do him harm supposedly; no backwards glances this time, R'sig has his attention. "But that's not.." Well. "And then they'd find you," R'sig informs him, nodding, and sounding almost conversational. "And drag you out, and beat the shit out of you. "You gotta go for spots that are going t'stop him in his tracks. Then, when he's stunned, you get to beat the shit out of him." A winning grin. "Better, right?" A'rist has started pacing around the two, watching, arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked in at the sides of his ribs. "Yeah.." There's no denying the fallibility of the plan V'ros usually institutes; their recent Nabol partying-gone-so-wrong trip stands as evidence. "But I don't know what those.. uh, spots, are, and what do with.." He holds up his hands, loosely curled into fists, and stares between the two like they might hold the answer to the universe. "These. Do I just.. throw it?" His eyes flick up to R'sig. R'sig is looking at V'ros much the way a hungry canine might look at his master's place, when said master's back is turned. But R'sig has at least a little bit of self-restraint. One big hand makes a shooing motion. "C'mere, Risty," called to the other bronzerider. Who makes a face. And trudges over, to where R'sig can organise him into a diagram, standing with legs slightly apart, arms just a bit away from his side, face forward... oh, and here, let's form that mouth into a smile. And once that's set - and the smile is reset, no, please leave it there - R'sig starts pointing out, "Spots to aim for." Relief - pure and simple - floods the brownrider's face when R'sig shoos him off so A'rist can take his place. V'ros stands to the side, watching as the older dragonrider moves his friend into positions, and studiously stares at each spot being pointed to. His eyes reflect his many questions, but he saves them, for now. "So. If guys haven't had any training, mostly they're going to come at you like," a moment, for A'rist-dummy adjustment, so that his arms are out forward. Oh, and then his knees are bent. Oh, and then he's leaning in a little. There. R'sig steps back, admires his handywork, and declares it finished with, "This. So your more open spots are gonna be here, and here, and here. So c'mon Risty." The older bronzerider backs up and beckons at the newer. "You just gotta pick the right spots." A'rist doesn't look thrilled. But eventually, he'll be the demonstration. At least they don't get into throws today. That'll be the next time. |
Comments
Roz (18:12, 17 December 2014 (EST)) said...
You know, with the quote and the description, it sounds like the opening to a real bad porno flick.
"And he knew, they'd never be friends, unless he did some VERY FORGIVEABLE acts."
Okokok, I stahp. XD
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