Logs:False Teeth
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| RL Date: 2 May, 2009 |
| Who: N'thei, Tiriana, Whitchek |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 18, Month 8, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr(#276RJs) The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself. A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs. The sun is high in the sky and there is not a cloud in sight. There's a breeze that tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air. Periodically, in between threatening people and trying to make money, N'thei has to stop and be a dragonrider. Today, on an afternoon of such astounding fineness, is one such day when duty overshadows greed and violence. No matter how much N'thei oils, Wyaeth will never obtain the glimmering sheen that makes such impressive specimens, too much grit-and-dust to the look of him, but the rider takes a step back to try and find spots he's missed, arms folded, an oily rag hanging across his elbow. There's plenty of other people on the lakeshore, some engaged in similar industries and some just trying to get some of that rare Reaches sunshine, but this particular pair merit a wide space all to themselves. A morning off, and where a strange number of people Whitchek's met so far would choose to spend that time curled up with some sort of reading material, he's out in shorts running laps. And he's been at it for awhile, to judge from the fact that he's soaked to the skin and starting to look a bit sunburned across the nose and forehead. He jogs between some folks in folding chairs to get close to the water, kicks off his shoes and wades in knee-deep to splash some on his face. He manages not to spot N'thei right off; he hasn't been in the Weyr long enough for dragons of the same color to start looking like individuals yet. Here's a quandary: N'thei does notice Whitchek pretty quickly once the kid's in his peripheral vision, his attention distracting from checking for unpolished bits of bronze hide to measuring the number of steps it would take him to reach the shoreline and drown sunburn-and-sweat over there, but the kid apparently runs, and N'thei is not so much of a runner. "Bit of unfinished business, isn't there," he calls on toward the water, takes no menacing steps or anything, just stands in that same arms-crossed posture to see if the boy decides to leg it. That much running already and Whitchek is not in a hurry to be trying to sprint at this point. For a moment it looks like he didn't hear, cupping both hands to pour water over the back of his neck and through his hair. That done, he wades back out, leaving shoes on the shoreline. "You could say that," he calls back, finally, looking straight in the bronzerider's direction, even taking steps towards him. Just not too close. "Don't think anybody's left to meddle, here." The moment during which N'thei actually saw red has long since passed, leaving him capable of regarding Whitchek's approach without cracking any knuckles or making a great effort to look big-and-imposing. It also leaves him capable of agreeing calmly, "No one as would meddle, no." Everyone around at the moment has a distinct interest in their own business, Whitchek's and N'thei's being a real somebody-else's-problem issue. "Want I should beat you or tell you why first?" "Your call," says Whitchek, stopping outside the range of easy grasp. "I'm sure you've got a big long list of excuses... why you shouldn't have to behave with any sort of decency." He pauses for breath in the middle, there, still a little winded but catching his breath pretty quickly. Water drips into his face and he wipes it away with the side of his hand. "So go ahead, shoot. Try me. Tell me what it is is wrong with you... gives you the right to be an ass." N'thei tosses his rag off toward the rest of his oiling gear, manages to get it to land next to the bucket where at least the wind won't carry it off, and exchanges glances with Wyaeth-- who has no designs on interfering, mind-- in the process. "That's it right there, lad. See, you're not allowed to talk to me like that. First, for obvious reasons." A hand gestures between the two of them, big and not-so-big, following along? "Second, I'm a bronzerider and you're a nobody. And if it takes a beating to make the point, I'm obliged to do my part." "You're a bronzerider. Yes. I almost forgot." Whitchek's eyes fall on the bronze in question. He's been told that they don't eat people, but right now there's a little faith involved in taking that statement for granted. "Because that thing gives you the right to do what you like. Nobody else matters, do they? You people." He may be a kid in relative terms, but he's also not a skinny five-nothing; what difference there is between them doesn't seem like quite enough now to make him cower. Maybe it's just all those endorphins. Excercise can do that. He puts his hands out to either side, palm up. "You want to make a point? Make it." Either he thinks he can get out of the way in time, he's gambling on N'thei not following through, or... well, it's probably one of those two, almost certainly. That thing? That /thing/! "Fucking hate kids," reports N'thei in a tired-sounding sigh, most of the words buried beneath the snort that issues from Wyaeth about the same time. No, they don't eat people, but that doesn't stop the bronze from taking off in a huff, scattering gravel all about him with the downsweep of wings and uprooting of talons. Amid that scatter, N'thei takes a step over with every intention of just cold-clocking the kid, one of those very bad left hooks of his. Unfortunately, most of his fighting usually involves collaring someone, slamming them against a wall, something that stops them from moving around much, 'cause he's not exactly a twinkle-toes. Gives Whitchek plenty of room to get clear, see. The abrupt departure of the bronze, that's enough to unnerve Whitchek; he's still not used to this business of giant flying creatures coming and going as they please. He does manage to duck out of the way of N'thei at first, but it's as much away from dust and gravel as it is the bronzerider himself. The trouble, of course, is that running away is not the honorable and just thing to do in this sort of situation. So after one step backwards, he stops and stands there rather like a complete moron. Absent the defense of cowardice, this would probably be a good time to try to take advantage of the agility difference... but he doesn't do that, either. Good, because that hook's a chin-breaker, and no one needs to start the autumn with their jaw wired shut, not when all the good tithes will be rolling in. The jab, though harder to duck, isn't likely to do near as much damage, just a pop of N'thei's knuckles toward Whitchek's mouth, which is really the only offensive part of the boy anyway, so it deserves it. To his credit, despite the lack of nearly any redeeming qualities, he at least knows how to fight enough to back up all the threats and malice. The blow hits, and Whitchek staggers backwards, his hand going to his mouth automatically. His hand comes away bloody and there's plenty flowing freely from his lip, but no spitting of teeth. "Come on," he says, a little muffled. And then the spitting of something into his hand, mostly blood, some metal and vitreous enamel. And then there's a gap where two of the teeth on the top left should have been. He wipes his mouth on the other sleeve. "That make you feel better?" he inquires. And all N'thei gets is a cracked knuckle again, one that he shakes without missing a beat. Every time, yes. To be absolutely honest, even watching the kid spit out his teeth-- which evokes a climbing of eyebrows in due surprise, as he certainly didn't think he'd gone and popped him that hard-- "Little bit, yes." Immediate danger having passed, he liberates a rag from his pocket, dabs it at his knuckle, and waits with an expectant look on his face. "Owe me an apology, boy." Two figures on the shore, and one of them is bleeding. One guess which one it is. For a moment, Whitchek is very intent on the bit of metal and enamel in his hand, then he opens his mouth and tries to force it back into place. Doesn't work. Spits it out again, pokes at it a bit, tries it again. That time, it stays. "I'm not wrong," he says, somewhat clearer. "Would, but I'm not wrong. You got some idea you're entitled to something you're not. Can hit me but it don't change anything." He wrenches his mouth around a little bit and spits blood again. "Think you mucked up my partial," he says sourly. "Entitled to some fucking respect, that's what I'm entitled to." N'thei could offer the rag he was using to Whitchek. Could, but doesn't, instead shoving it back in his pocket to add with lasting belligerence, "Damn toothless hillbilly. Best you learn some things, boy." That being the closest he has to a paternal tone, let's all take a moment to be grateful that he has never yet managed to procreate. "Like when to keep your trap shut." There's blood? Maybe it's Tiriana's sixth sense for punching that draws her over to the boys. Or maybe it's just Iovniath's prodding: the egg-heavy gold, in the middle of a bath (and much complaining by her rider), is certainly not ignorant of the trouble. In either case, here comes Tiriana to butt into the middle of things, stomping--well, sloshing in the water, anyway--as she advances on the pair. "What the hell?" she demands, in lieu of 'hi.' "Why? What'd you ever do to deserve it?" Whitchek asks N'thei, obviously not having learned the bit about shutting his trap. But it's a less confrontational tone, now. "You show me something besides the dragon, you give me some reason and I will." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve again and manages, despite the still-bleeding lip, to nod politely to the Weyrwoman. "Morning," he says to her. N'thei's utterance of, "Piss and blood," couples with the sudden, decisive turn of his shoulders away from Tiriana's advance toward the stuff left in Wyaeth's wake-- oil and rags and the like. He has not spent four months (granted, two of them off sulking at Benden) studiously avoiding the goldrider's presence to accept her interjection gracefully. Whatever he's done, or hasn't done, to merit Whitchek's respect will just have to wait. "Don't say 'what the hell' like it's not obvious what we're doing here," he answers testily. Whitchek's retorts have Tiriana shooting a narrow-eyed look his way, but no repimands on that end; tacit agreement, maybe. Or maybe N'thei's just a much bigger target in so many ways. She looks at the resident only a moment before turning back to him. She'd probably be preening he was so unthrilled to see her, any other time. This time? "Fine, then," she snaps at him. "Why the hell. Is that better? Ooh, ooh. There's a good answer for that one. "Told him to do it," offers Whitchek mildly to the Weyrwoman. Which is, in fact, even the truth for the most part. "S'okay." The lack of response on her part towards his mouthiness is a little vindicating, but at the same time, some things are just not other people's business where he comes from. He touches his broken lip and eyes the stain on his fingertips. "I'm fine." N'thei ought to just get it tattooed on his forehead. "Not your business. Madam Weyrwoman." That last tossed on there with a glance thrown toward Whitchek. See? Respect. Though he's mildly annoyed that the boy goes on to answer the question, his nose twitching in a flare of frustration. Crouching, he collects his things, shaking sand out of the rag he tossed aside a while back. For that, both men get positively snakey looks. "It's my Weyr. I'm the damn Weyrwoman," she points out then, crossing her arms over her chest. "That means it's /all/ my business, what my people are doing to each other. There's five other Weyrs' worth of people to hit, and that's just on this continent." Because who cares about diplomatic relations? "No offense, ma'am," offers Whitchek, "but there are some things a lady shouldn't worry about." Whether or not a Weyrwoman constitutes a lady in the original context in which Whit learned this truism is, of course, debatable. "No harm done." He casts a glance at N'thei. "Had worse." And may, at this rate, yet. Pro-tip: Guys like N'thei would pay /way/ more attention to girls like Tiriana if they weren't crossing their arms over their chests. He looks up at her for a second, crestfallen by this new posture, then straightens in such a way as to make a point. A point that he does not deem to share with the entire lakeshore, as he comes over like he'll just briefly cuff her elbow and issue a low remark. He mutters to Tiriana, "... may... are." Yes, he tries to keep his hypocrisy largely on the down-low. Pail clanking at the ends of his fingers, he echoes, "There, madam, is a fine answer. Some things a lady shouldn't worry about." To Whitchek's credit, the remark leaves him smirking. Tiriana senses: Pro-tip: Guys like N'thei would pay /way/ more attention to girls like Tiriana if they weren't crossing their arms over their chests. He looks up at her for a second, crestfallen by this new posture, then straightens in such a way as to make a point. A point that he does not deem to share with the entire lakeshore, as he comes over like he'll just briefly cuff her elbow and issue a low remark. "You may be the Weyrwoman, love, but I'm still bigger than you are." Yes, he tries to keep his hypocrisy largely on the down-low. Pail clanking at the ends of his fingers, he echoes, "There, madam, is a fine answer. Some things a lady shouldn't worry about." To Whitchek's credit, the remark leaves him smirking. There are a lot of things Tiriana could say, to both of them. She looks like she really wants to, drawing sharply away from N'thei when he gets close to her, and glowering at both of them. Finally, all she says is a cold, "I hope you kill each other." And she's turning away then, back toward her own dragon. Whitchek's brows climb at that part. "Wasn't planning on it," he offers after Tiriana. Murder is very high on his "things that moral people don't do" list. Not the highest thing on the list, but it's pretty far up there. Being murdered isn't on the list, but it's still not something he'd call a hobby. "Why're you smirking?" he demands of N'thei, then. The lady business was meant to be serious, after all. For all he was not happy to see her, N'thei ought to be plenty glad to let Tiriana go wandering off. But it's a tragic little, "Don't leave all mad, love. Stay and give us a piece of your mind." Also, something nicer to look at that toothless bumpkins! "Because I can, boy," he answers with a mind-your-own-business look cast at Whitchek. Tiriana does not stop, especially when asked like that. Instead-- "Fuck you." Ever eloquent, she even has a little gesture to accompany that sentiment, just in case Whitchek really thought she deserved that lady title. Well, great. Whitchek looks after the Weyrwoman a little aghast. Very aghast. Then he coughs a little. "Well," he says, looking back at the bronzerider with a somewhat renewed puzzlement. "Are you two, uh--" Pause. "Never mind." Which may be less discretion than a realization that if the Tiriana behaves this way routinely, he just doesn't want to know. "Don't make offers you don't intend to keep," is the call that chases Tiriana on her way, with N'thei cupping one hand halfway around the corner of his mouth. Which maybe answers the are-you-two-uh question? Answer being, 'not for lack of trying?' Albeit one-sided. The dumb farm kid is duly scandalized by this, but he manages to swallow most of it back and wipe the shocked look off his face shortly. He should probably take this opportunity to flee. Instead, Whitchek tells N'thei, after Tiriana is out of earshot, "Y'never answered my question. And if you talk that way to women, I'm guessing chivalry is out of the running as reasons go." Here's a shocker; "Never going to." With Tiriana gone, with Whitchek having been punched, N'thei's pretty much run out of worthwhile reasons to stay and shoot the breeze with toothless here. "Best get your teeth fixed, son." Sage advice before he's turning toward the caverns. Usually, Whitchek's mouth is pretty clean. All those bouts with a bar of soap as a child. But he finds, as N'thei walks off, that how Tiriana put it is just about the only way it can be put. So, "Fuck you," he echoes, but not loudly, and goes back to find his shoes. |
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