Logs:How Bronzers Avoid Punches
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| RL Date: 22 April, 2013 |
| Who: K'zin, I'zech, Z'ian |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'zech and Z'ian impart wisdom to K'zin. Or something like that. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 8, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Breezy |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ) The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook. Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
No, it's not the afternoon like +time would have you believe. It's really after dinner. The bulk of the bar's crowd is out on the patio, bumping into each other and being loud and rowdy. It's a typical summer evening, really. Meanwhile inside it's busy, but a touch quieter. There are some empty tables scattered here and there and it is possible to reach the bartender. Z'ian's already been there, his tall mug of ale in his possession. Rather than remain at the hub of activity, he's wandered away and has found an empty booth. Without company for tonight, the bronzerider settles in and relaxes. His flight jacket gets thrown into the corner against the wall, but not before he digs out an envelope. He flips open the flap, pulling out a loose piece of paper to read. K'zin has been avoiding Snowasis. It's not that he was banned from it; it is, after all, a public place with lots of eyes to see if he breaks a rule. It's just that there's temptation here. He hasn't had a drink in nearly two months and now there's plenty about and some he surely could have, if he chose. Tonight, he doesn't choose to, apparently. He's been here for a while, notebook in one hand, pencil in the other. He leans unobtrusively against a wall, and he's been moving here and there, brown eyes scanning the faces and occasionally lingering on some. He lacks the subtlety of a true spy, but he's not sticking out like a sore thumb either. He'd certainly blend better with food or drink in hand. For anyone who's been watching the watcher watch, his eyes have notably been on the faces of women more often than men, watching them as they flirt or exchange jokes with their companions. Z'ian isn't paying enough attention to the other people around him to really notice K'zin, over there with his pencil and notebook. The bronzerider has his eyesight still largely focused on the paper in his hands. It's unfolded and his eyes scan the lines before he drops it down onto the table. Taking a long draw from his mug, he glances around at the crowds. His eyes wander over the weyrling, there's no recognition so no need right away for him to pay him anymore heed than necessary. Swallowing, he leans over and takes up his jacket again. This time he drags out his own pencil and returns to the document. Snap. That's not the sound a man with a pencil wants to hear. "Crackdust." K'zin swears quietly as he loses the tip of his pencil. His eyes rise to scan the room again as though hoping to find a convenient sharpener attached to one wall or another, or someone with a sharp knife ready for the task. The only other person he finds with pencil in hand is Z'ian, and so he pushes away from the wall and saunters toward the man. From a few paces away, his baritone carries toward the older rider: "Excuse me, Wingleader." His arrival at the edge of the booth has him stopping to salute crisply - showing due respect and all that. "Do you happen to have a pencil sharpener? Or a spare pencil?" "...Excuse me?" Z'ian replies back, looking mostly confused as he turns his attention up to K'zin. It's almost as if he's having a difficult time understanding this teenager at the end of his booth, saluting him and asking for a pencil sharpener. It's... rather out of place. The bronzerider clears his throat then and shakes his head. "No, I don't have one. I happen to need this one and don't have another." It's not said unkindly. He shifts, leaning over and down, pulling a small sheathed knife from the inside of one of his riding boots. He turns it hilt first over to the weyrling if he wants it. "Can you make this work?" He flips his paper over to the blank side and begins to scrawl some notes onto in his own broad, relaxed cursive. "A pencil sharpener." K'zin repeats helpfully, "Or a pencil?" He holds up his broken-tipped one, hand-sized notebook still in his opposite hand. Then there's the look of disappointment as Z'ian explains his lacking and need, not that the weyrling ever intended to deprive Z'ian of his own, just that it make him look a likely target. Brown eyes begin to cast about, so they're mildly surprised when they return to find the small knife offered. "Oh, yes. That'll work. Thanks." He accepts it, and then makes a gesture toward the opposite bench of the booth. "Do you mind?" He wouldn't want to wander off with a Wingleader's knife, after all. "Sorry, I heard you. I was just trying to place the request with where we are right now. Not a lot of people ask me for a pencil sharpener here in the bar." Z'ian explains, the confusion being to melt away. The notebook gets a casual glance and he flashes the weyrling a quick, easy smile. He looks back to his paper, making a more notations before nodding. "Oh, sure. Go right ahead." Tapping his own writing utensil against his lips. "You're one of our werylings." He observes, glancing at the teenager's haircut and knot. "Bronze. How're the barracks treating you? I keep meaning to get down there to say hello to you all, but I haven't been able to find the time." The smile from before turns apologetic and he lifts his shoulders. With the okay given, K'zin turns to gracefully drop onto the seat, crossing one boot across his opposite knee, facing out to the bar instead of the usual orientation of one sitting in such a seat. He uses his ankle and knee as a balance after placing the notebook, closed on the table top. Knife is taken immediately to the pencil tip, starting to carefully shave a new point. "Guilty as charged." K'zin answers the man's assessment of his station in life. "The barracks are busy, and aside from the initial tyranny of haircuts, about as one might expect." Which is to say, busy and lots of hard work. "I wouldn't worry over much. The way we hear it, that kind of knot," He points to the general vicinity of the jacket which was seen from standing, but now hidden from his view, "-have a way of eating up one's free time. They've just started us with wings and wingleaders and all that. Even they seem really busy." He doesn't sound particularly envious. "Initial tyranny of haircuts?" Z'ian repeats as a question. His mouth turns up at the corners, amusement evident. "Did someone tie you down and cut off your ponytail or something? Damn weyrlingmasters. Monsters." Just a touch of sarcasm, just a touch. He puts his hand to the paper again, jotting a few words down. But he seems to be mostly distracted from that, attention shifting more towards K'zin. "It can eat up your time. But busy or not. There's no real good excuse for not taking five minutes of my time to go down and at least observe your morning drills. This seven." That's a quick promise, likely made more to himself than the teenager sharpening a pencil. "How's that going, the wingleader thing? Silver thread program? I never got picked for any of that stuff myself. Not motivated enough, supposedly." There's an amused grin for that and a glance over to the knot on his jacket. "Not exactly. Though if she'd tied me down..." K'zin doesn't complete the sentence, but there's amusement in his tone that lends towards some dirty joke going unsaid. "Monsters, indeed. Just ask the ladies. No one's looked at me twice since I lost all my pretty hair." Beat. "Though it does keep some of the riders from getting confused in the bathes. Which outweighs the negatives, I think." He's making friendly chit-chat, really, just passing the time as he works on the pencil tip. "Silver thread thing has some people upset." Not him, evidently. "Some who wanted it and were working hard didn't get it, others that didn't want it got it. You know how it goes. It's created more breaking of a team atmosphere than it's made. Sort of silly, I think. Shouldn't everyone get the sorts of training they're offering just a select few? Never know who's going to end up Weyrleader next at the rate things are going around here." He gives a little roll of his eyes. "None of the bronzes were picked. There're some that are thinking that's a statement more than a happenstance." "If she tied you down it would probaby be more personal information than I want to know about." Z'ian warns with good humor, just a flick of his eyes towards the ceiling. Teenagers. He glances at where all of K'izn's pretty hair would be, a smirk crossing his face. "Was that the only thing you had to offer the girls? Pretty hair? You're going to want to work on your skills if that's the case." He's gently teasing the much younger man, even as he makes another note onto the paper in front of him. Distractedly he reaches for the mug of beer, finally taking another long draw. The bronzerider is attentively listening to the weyrling, head tilting to the side just a moment. "That sounds like a question that you should aks your Weyrlingmaster. Why weren't those interested in learning chosen to learn more?" A quick sip again. "What do you think? Political statement or?" He seems very much interested in the teen's answer. "I've been warned about kissing and telling." K'zin's answer is in equal good humor as he sits, faced out toward the bar at the end of the booth with Z'ian opposite. Z'ian has a paper in front of him and a pencil in hand. K'zin, too, holds a pencil, although it seems he's lost his point. Literally, for sure, though figuratively is up for debate as he doesn't seem to be talking about anything in particular. "Evidently. That's why I'm watching the masters in action." The knife tip gets pointed about to identify a few of the mack-daddies attempting their magic. It's not exactly true, but it's an amusing enough story. "I'm thinking that I will. Seems the kind of thing that keeps a guy busy enough to stay out of trouble." A guy like him. "I dunno. I used to think I knew Quinlys kind of well since I had a crush on her when I was, like, ten. But lately, a lot of the barracks scuttlebutt tells that she's very different than I ever thought." Because when you have a crush on someone when you're ten, you get to know them sooooo well. "Yeah, you don't tell. Generally." Z'ian seems to just unconsciously be making marks on the paper. Is he even writing? Is that a smily face? His handwriting is so awful though that it's really impossible to be able to see from across the table. "Unless you don't give a fuck. But I don't recommand that as the attitude you should take." There's an amused snort from him as he looks around to view these 'mack-daddies' around the bar. He lifts an eyebrow to direct a crooked smile towards K'zin. "There's nothing like your own actual experience to learn from. Staring at other people is... not quite the same." Pulling the mug towards himself again he takes a long, generous swallow. "Well. She's a grown woman and a crush you had on her when you were ten?" Does he really have to explain it? He's hoping not at least as he lets the question hang there in the air. "What sort of trouble would you be getting into? That you couldn't keep well enough out of on your own?" Ok, so since the boys are not at the bar, I'zech, upon spying one of his oh-so-fortunate charges, collects himself a fresh drink and saunters on over to their booth, dropping an elbow on the back of it behind K'zin's head. It might be kind of hard to tell if the drag of his boots is because he's drunk, or if the liquor smell is coming from his glass, but it might generally be hard to tell if he's drunk or not anyway. And now he hangs low over the weyrling, making no apologies about busting in on the conversation. He's heard enough, though, to point out. "It's women who give a shit about that kind of thing. They're the ones who like to do the talking." Kissing and telling. He's unimpressed. "I don't recommend crushes." Z'ian is making his recommendations, I'zech throws in his own. And he jerks his head for the weyrling to move over so he can sit. "So I hear." K'zin's grin is amused. "I think it only takes one irate woman to learn that one. Real--" And that's the moment when I'zech's head is so suddenly near his. The instinctive reaction K'zin has is to recoil. Since he's sideways on the edge of the bench, there's only two choices: up or slide back. Up wins out as easier, so he's bouncing out of the booth, carefully keeping a grip on the small knife he's been sharpening the pencil with. Seeing that it's I'zech leads him to start a salute-- but then what the man is saying sinks in. Obviously he's not here in an official capacity. He settles back on the bench only to slide over to make the older man room. "I was ten." K'zin reiterates. "I've given up on crushes since then." He's gained some sense in the intervening turns. "So what you're saying," He returns his eyes to Z'ian, moving sharpening task to the table-top, "-is... I should just go hit on a bunch of women and see what happens. After I'm allowed, of course." Since no upstanding Wingleader like Z'ian would ever suggest breaking the rules. An innocent few blinks of his big brown eyes are directed to I'zech. "I'd have to agree on that. Women like to gossip, they don't like it when you gossip." Z'ian takes another draw from his mug, brining the level of beer down to about halfway. He nods towards I'zech when he materalizes along the back of the booth. With two people here, it's obvious that whatever he was writing is going to take a back seat now. The paper gets folded up and slipped into the envelope. "You're getting old enough now to move past crushes. You're interested in a girl, just go after her." He doesn't seem as if he exactly knows the other bronzerider, but he at least seems vaguely familiar with his presence. But then again, sixteen turns in a weyr will do that to you. There's only so many other riders of their color. "Yeah, sure. Might as well do it now while you're young and not bogged down with a lot of crap. I don't know when you're allowed to, I guess though. Whenever." The jump-to draws I'zech back, rocking away on the pivot of his elbow while he gives the weyrling a dubious look. At least K'zin settles down again shortly and slides over on the bench. I'zech twists to take a seat, one leg stretched out beside the booth, boot flat to the floor, shoulders comfortably slouched. He doesn't look to K'zin as he answers, just across the table at Z'ian, dark steady eyes and a faint smirk. But for all that he might not seem to be paying much attention to the weyrling, his response to hitting on all the girls is: "Fuck that." And he takes a sip of his drink to wash the taste of that idea away. Surely there's more to his objection, but he doesn't bother just coming out with it, as if his comment says it all. "Worst they can say is no, I guess. Worst they can do is a bit more of a thing to worry about, but I'm told that's why bronzeriders get good at avoiding punches." K'zin's gaze slides to I'zech for a moment, studying the older man. "I hear you're bound to be particularly good at that." To Z'ian, he gives a simple nod of agreement that he's beyond crushes. No need to waste words on the subject. "So does that mean your wing takes rule-breakers?" Brows rise in genuine inquiry. Jumpy kids. What are you going to do? Z'ian reaches over to his jacket and tucks the envelope back in. I'zech's response doesn't exactly warrant any sort of response from him, other than a glance of some sort. Acknowledgement maybe for the 'fuck that'. But he doesn't have anything to say to it, really. Instead, "That's why some bronzeriders get good at avoiding punches I suppose." He glances from teen to the other man across from him before taking one of those long drinks of his ale. Boreal and rule-breakers. That generates something of a sigh and a tired smile. "I'm less worried about people being rule-breakers and more about them being intelligent." "Yeah? Is that a thing? Bronzeriders avoiding punches?" I'zech isn't sold on the notion, for all that it's unlikely anyone doubts he's inspired plenty of fists. But he casts a sidelong look at K'zin for what he thinks he's heard, not feeling any need to disuade such rumors. Instead he just lists a hand to scratch nails through the growing scruff at his jaw. And for Z'ian and his wing of intelligent riders, I'zech hitches a wry bit of a grin. "How's that working out for ya?" Not that anyone has to mention the stunts that Boreal mice have pulled when the cat was away. "So I'm told." K'zin shrugs noncommittally. "I'm told we have a penchant for throwing punches, too." The way he says it though doesn't sound like it's a particular habit of his. "Someone thought you might be persuaded to teach me some of your talent for it, lest my pretty face get in the way of someone's fist." 'Pretty face' is said with particular humor. Hearing Z'ian's answer and I'zech's question he quirks a brow, "Looking for a new job so soon? Tired of us already?" to Z'ian, he gives a thoughtful look then. "Maybe you'll look our way come the end of all this. Silver thread or no silver thread." "Well enough." Z'ian replies easily, if he's bothered underneath by the hijinks Boreal gets themselves into when he's not watching them one hundred percent of the time, he's not showing that to I'zech. His smile is pleasently neutral for the other bronzerider and he glances back over to the weyrling. "That's a lot of bullshit. The only people with a penchant for throwing punches are the ones predisposed towards violence. Being a bronzerider doesn't mean that you are." As for the silver thread or not, "Possibly. I plan on looking at a lot of things, not just whether you worked your way into some program in weyrlinghood. That may or may not be totally biased at this point." All these things K'zin has heard, all these someones. I'zech looks at him with a dull gaze, tongue running his teeth behind closed lips. "You probably want 'someone' else for that," he drolls, putting wry emphasis on that one word. "I'll stick to showing you how not to fuck up your straps and fall to your death." He cocks a brow to say, Sound good? And then his chin nudges attention back toward Z'ian, a silent agreement with his comments on bronzeriders and punches, or maybe just the part about bullshit. The silver thread program, however, which is hardly a topic an assistant weyrlingmaster can get away from, just has him puffing a disinterested breath through his lips. "Carrot." Not that he explains that. What he says instead, with a thin smile and a rote tone, is: "Learning shit is good." There, instructorly duty done. Right? "Probably." K'zin agrees with I'zech. "In fact, that's more or less what I said, and yet, here I am asking you about it anyway." His glance rolls from I'zech to Z'ian. "Guess that knocks away intelligence points from my Borean potential score." His brow furrows, "What else do you look for in potential riders? Maybe I can earn the point back somewhere else." He doesn't comment on his thoughts about whether or not I'zech is up to the task of teaching him not to die, nor does his expression betray anything other than friendly good humor all around. The pencil is sufficiently sharpened so he sets it on the notebook and re-sheaths the small knife, sliding it back toward Z'ian, "Thank you. I'm glad to hear I wasn't missing a big piece of what makes bronzeriders bronzeriders after all." "You should probably focus on not doing crap that makes people want to punch you in the face. I find being a reasonably decent human being to be a great start to that." Z'ian suggests as he pulls that mug towards himself and drains the remaining ale that's there. "Don't worry about earning points back. You have a long way to go. Listen to I'zech too. Learning shit is good." With the knife sliding back across the table to him, he accepts it. "No problem. Anytime, kid. Whatever your name is." Because they never actually got around to that part. He slips the item back where it belongs in his boot, leaning back. "What's with the interest in courting wingleaders?" I'zech wonders, canting his head away as he gives the weyrling another sidelong look, perhaps a bit more curious this time rather than skeptical. He flicks a glance over at Z'ian, checking the man's reaction to these questions about potential and points, though it's his agreement that earns him a quick twist of a grin. He lifts his glass again to drink. "Or are you thinking you'll just take the 'it's not what you know, it's who you know' angle? Skip the work and go right for the hobnobbing." I'zech should probably sound a little more like he discourages the idea. "I do try." K'zin answers Z'ian's advice. "But my nose hasn't had a good track record at remaining unbroken." Once long ago, and once during weyrlinghood, though the later wasn't the cause of a punch. "Doesn't hurt to learn how to be prepared." See? He wants to learn. His shoulders roll in a noncommittal shrug, "Good for a weyrling to understand the wings, all the wings. Good to know what one might be getting into, come graduation day." Even if it is foooorever from now. He doesn't say that, but some sense of it is implied through his tone. K'zin can't help but roll his eyes a little, "You should know better than most that I'm not the type for that." Should. Since I'zech is an assistant, and K'zin's been doing nothing but studying and physical training and working on that big board game in the training cavern since I'zech took his post. He seems content enough with being unknown for the moment since he doesn't offer a name. He picks up his notebook and pencil, carefully tucking both into a cargo pocket in his pants. "That's good." Z'ian concedes, drinking the dregs of his ale down before he pushes the mug fully away from himself. He watches quietly the exchange between the weyrling and the new assistant in the barracks. There's no comment and he makes no attempt to get inbetween what could possibly be some back and forth. It might be time for him to go as well, because the bronzerider reaches over to grab his riding jacket. He rakes his fingers through his hair and tucks that pencil behind his ear, sometimes it's better to just not talk at all. "There you go," I'zech offers without real encouragement, just accepting there might be some merit to sussing out something about the wings. Of course, that dry delivery could make it unclear whether he really believes it or not. But with the conversation dwindling, I'zech has no investment to linger and see that it picks up again. Instead, he just pick himself up, heaving his weight to his feet and dragging his drink off the table. "I'll see you guys around," is at least better than walking away without saying anything at all. And he also points to the weyrling, "This one is K'zin. With Rasavyth." Which, at that very moment, just happens to be when Rojeth reaches a clammy fog toward the young bronze, a light, probing touch. But I'zech is turning away to go back to whatever the evening has in store for him. Rasavyth's mind is almost always receptive to visitors. The instant that Rojeth's mind reaches, the young bronze's natural invisible shimmers of ooze ripple and are suddenly another version of the clammy fog, the only difference being the winks of the shimmering ooze that peeks through here and there as the fog drifts. K'zin looks as unperturbed as his dragon's mind feels by I'zech's name dropping and departure. "Rasavyth is fond of telling me there are lessons to be learned from everyone." This is said as brown eyes follow I'zech's retreating form, tone indicating that he is, perhaps, still searching for just what lesson I'zech offers. Directing his attention back to Z'ian, "Maybe when you come to visit the weyrlings you might bring Tsanth. I'm sure Rasavyth would be interested in meeting him." I'zech gets up and leaves. Basically. But not before he gives up K'zin's name for him. Z'ian looks vastly amused when the younger bronzerider saunters away, laughing quietly under his breath as he begins to slide out of the booth. "I'm not sure what lessons you're going to learn from him. But there's probably a couple cautionary tales somewhere in his life experience." He shrugs his jacket on and checks his pockets out of habit. "I probably will. We usually come as a team to something like that. I just have to remember to get down there. Maybe add it to my calendar." That last part is a little distracted, but clearing his throat he focuses more fully on the weyrling again. "Tsanth is friendly. He won't mind making new friends." Rojeth, friendly or not -- and let's face it, probably not -- is quick to suck the vapors back, some distant hissing and the chase of chill winds. He leaves that fake-fog and says nothing, and then his touch is gone, like it never was. I'zech appears to settle himself back with some companions who must have been his drinking partners before he stopped by Z'ian and K'zin's table. Z'ian's speculation about what lessons I'zech has to offer has K'zin fighting a close-lipped smile. "I'll be sure to keep an open mind." He manages before resuming the battle. "Glad to hear it, about Tsanth. There's not many in our bunch whose dragons are friendly without also being paranoid. It'll be a relief to meet another friendly one." His hands fold in his lap, apparently not intending to make himself scarce. "Have a good evening, sir." He offers pleasantly, since Z'ian is clearly in the process of moving on. "Usually a good idea." That keeping an open mind thing. Z'ian doesn't have any problem smiling about the situation, but that's his thing in life anyway. He brings his two fingers up to his forehead in a lazy sort of salute. "Tsanth likes to talk, so be prepared for that. You have a good evening, stay out of trouble." Not that he looks as if he believes K'zin is going to get up to much in here. But still. He says it anyway and disappears into the crowds, heading out the door and onto somewhere else. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:How Bronzers Avoid Punches"Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 23 Apr 2013 23:40:39 GMT.
Three very different flavors of bronzeriders. XD Gotta love when that happens in a scene.
*snerks* I think I'zech is a walking cautionary tale, Z'ian.
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