Logs:Lies, Thievery and Blackmail
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| RL Date: 13 May, 2016 |
| Who: Lys, N'klas |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Clutchmates discuss deviant behaviors. |
| Where: Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 10, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
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| The weather is normal enough for autumn, which is not to say great, moisture glistening on the leaves and needles on those trees down below by the lake. Not that Nik's looking at them; no, he's seated not at the once-ledge's edge but at its base, cross-legged on a rock. Juggling. Balled-up socks. "Weirdo," is affectionate greeting for the blonde and his socks as Lys surmounts the last steps, her flight jacket hanging loosely on her slender frame. It's the hand-me-down from weyrlinghood, which might mean she hasn't had a chance to commission the Weyr-gifted set, or perhaps she's saving for embellishments or some such. It's without any invitation or care for the fact that she might be interrupting his process or focus by striding over to him and ruffling his shaggy hair before dropping unceremoniously into the same pose next to him, except with her elbows going to her knees and her chin coming to rest on her hands. "Is this wing-sanctioned juggling?" It's inquired deadpan. So of course he drops one. It bounces off his knee in time to grab it, scraggly used-to-be-blue wool lump that it is, while he somehow sweet-talks-- in a cursing sort of way-- the other two to behave; then Nik grins over at Lys. "Only when they don't go over the edge. Here, catch." It's not firestone, and it's not the ex-blue one, either, but a heathered orange-patched gray. "I know what you're doing. Spying on my Alpine ways." He's side-eyed at the cursing sort of sweet-talk to (hopefully clean) socks, but Lys doesn't make comment on the direction of his affections. Yet. The heathered orange-patched gray is caught, with a preemptive wrinkle of her nose. She eyes it before smiling faintly and turning so she can face him. They're going to play catch, right? She tosses it back to him whether he's ready or not. "How many did you start with?" How many went over the edge? "I do hear some interesting things about the secret ways of other wings. You can brag if you want. About your Alpine-y secrets." It's clear that she's talking shit. Playfully. They're clean. Well, they were clean. A couple are dirt-smudged from other falls, but must not have too many thorns. N'klas catches the ball o' wool easily enough, and loops another back to her along the way. "Three," he says in a smirky, may-or-may-not-be-true sort of way. "Obviously." Duh. "Yeah, so the other day, we saved this hold that was tumbling down the mountainside. The way holds do. Because we're amazing like that. You?" "Obviously," Lys returns, her tone sardonic, but not overtly disbelieving. "Wow," is a completely different tone - one of wonder and awe (faked). She looks at N'klas with (feigned) starry eyes. "That's sooo amazing, N'klas. How could I ever compete with that? I stared at a lot of ground and got windburn because I didn't bother to fix my scarf when it fell down." She turns her face this way and that as she lofts the caught sock-ball back to him; the windburn is healing now, not so obvious as to be new. "Oh, and then I wrote a riveting report about the whole lot of nothing unusual that I saw." At least she's good humored about all that though. N'klas is just shaking his head. "Lys, Lys...sssss. You've got to turn your head while you fly so at least you expose different areas to get sandpapered," as he illustrates once he's caught the ball and not thrown one back, head tilting in loose circles as though mimicking someone primping at a mirror. He's got more freckles than he used to, and less acne, but then he is seventeen. "See, you should add more in, see if they notice," because that works so well in Alpine. Obviously. "I did both sides," Lys grumps in response, turning her head the other way so he can see the other side's healing evidence. When there's no ball thrown back, Lys does the only logical thing and leans forward to take one from him. "Are you, N'klas, the Weyrleader's son, admitting to me that you fabricate your reports to your Wingleader?" She sounds scandalized at the very idea. N'klas duly looks, and if he's distracted along the way, that just makes it easier to steal from him. "Thief," he accuses before promptly paling-- possibly her tone more than the words-- then going red, then bluffing it out. "I never said that," he says, and if he shifts uncomfortably on the rock, surely it's not because of guilt. "Naw, it's... it's just because of the blackmail," he comes up with in a sudden burst of inspiration. "Yes, but it's more polite to call it reappropriation," Lys returns to N'klas, apparently not denying the charge. She must mentally tally the points that paling and blushing gives her. "You're being blackmailed?" She asks, lifting her brows in a 'do tell' way that might also impart a farce of concern. "Obviously," is Nik's go-to word of the afternoon, the teenager too distracted to even snicker at all those syllables. "It's a long story. A private story. I couldn't tell it without... a drink." Then, because who knows what she has in that big old coat of hers, "a lot of drinks." His gaze gets caught on the coat like there's something about it that he can't figure out, or even figure out if he's supposed to. Who indeed. Lys begins to search those pockets, the sock-ball abandoned in her lap. "A lot of drinks," she chews on the words as she feels down the outside pockets and then makes a show of searching the inner ones, of which there seem to be rather a lot. "I'm not sure I can stretch my imagination enough to place you doing something worthy of blackmail." She opines casually as she searches for ... what? Something she doesn't find. Perhaps a lot of drinks. "You, me, gather, a lot of drinks and your story." It's probably an invitation and not a command. N'klas gives her a look like he also can't quite figure out whether that's supposed to be an insult or compliment; then he blinks, which may be Khajith telling him. "You're buying?" Lys narrows her eyes at the younger man. "Which one of us is the hot one with boobs?" So of course Nik checks, and then he's getting smirky. "The other guys, then." Lys brazenly straightens her back which has a visible effect. She does delight in making Nik uncomfortable when she can manage it. "Fine. But the story's for me, alone. Also a few dances." Just in case he thought he was getting off easy. N'klas can't look away fast enough: read, can't look away and then does, sort of like ripping off a bandage. "Fine," he says, mimicking her. The sky, it's fascinating. Was that a raindrop? It might have been. "Find a good one, not too fancy, and we'll go. But first," he eyes her, "I want my ball back." Lys' triumph is worth the smirk that comes when he looks away. She enjoys it a moment before glancing skyward and taking that moment to aim the sock-ball at his face (the side of it that would have it bouncing not off the cliff, because she's a nice person, clearly). "Done." For all of it. And she's up and strolling toward the stairs with a little wiggle of her fingers off to one side in farewell. "Bye," N'klas calls to Lys, and-- maybe-rain or no maybe-rain-- sits there a little longer once his sock-balls are safely stowed. All three of them. |
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