Logs:Your Aim's Off
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| RL Date: 4 September, 2015 |
| Who: Nala, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: No-one dies. Or loses a limb to a scythe. Just about. |
| Where: Holding, Fort Area |
| When: Day 22, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'muir/Mentions |
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| This is not happy time. This is not fun time. This is not regular work time, which so often is fun in its own right. This is 'N'muir wants to help the holders and fine, N'rov will go along.' 'Helping the holders' in this instance equates to 'helping them harvest,' not for the first time. So it is that a smallish group of Hematite riders has found itself in an autumn-golden field, complete with scythes and holders to work alongside. It isn't even any exciting crop, but instead a basic sort in case those riders mess it up. At least it's overcast, even if that's only a benefit to humans and not one bronze dragon who, from a considerable distance, is looking on. Vhaeryth snorts. N'rov grimaces, looking back at him, and then in passing at his fellow riders. It's only been... how long now? What time Nala spends with Hematite of her own volition - being what little time she seems to tolerate outside of drills and prescribed duties - she's usually a silent participant, having gradually become less and less vocal over the stretch of months, and today hasn't yet turned out to be any exception. She's present and doing her share of the work, her shirt tied beneath her chest, permitting the shadows of old bruises to show, yet she doesn't stray nearer to any of her wingmates than she has to, save for the former Weyrleader. The bluerider even looks away when N'rov glances towards their wingmates, and her method of 'helping' turns to even less actual harvesting and more savaging of the poor crops. "What," the bronzerider inquires a few scythe-strokes later, after she's had time to savage some more, "did the poor things ever do to you?" He grins at Nala, too, a sharp flash of teeth before swinging the next cut. It could be entirely innocent, just a girl with enough strength to wield the scythe without truly knowing how to use it properly or calculate the swing and momentum, but when Nala shifts her weight and twists slightly to address N'rov, the blade gets awfully close in the moment before it drifts unsteadily away again. "Why," she asks, pausing only to draw breath, "are you even here?" On this planet, says her tone. Time to trust in his leather boots? N'rov probably should dodge, but instead his gaze travels back to her and he says solicitously, "Careful. Your aim's off." He's even dropped his voice some, as though to make sure others can't hear. Continuing with his work, "Aren't we all here for the same reason? To do good, because we're just kind and helpful that way." Though Nala adjusts her grip on the scythe, she tells N'rov, "There is nothing wrong with my aim," in a voice that's a near growl. She doesn't bother to resume striking out at all there is before her, which might be more by way of damage limitation than anything else. "I forgot," she drawls, "that you do so love to help." Turning her back to him, she casts the blade out again. "Get out of my face and go and bother someone else." Of course N'rov would have to chuckle for that, low and easy, even if his gray gaze has a glint to it and he's keeping discreet but definite tabs on her. "Don't you?" Like to help. While he's at it, scythe snicking, "I would, but you fixed it for me. Besides, I wouldn't want to disappoint the holders we've come to help. You know, 'riders, they give up so easily,' or whatever." She stops again, seemingly trying to balance the weight of the unfamiliar blade, then twists suddenly, bringing the handle of the scythe around in a circle, blade nicking stems as she goes, but it's the journey of the former that she's intent on, brought around towards N'rov's ankles with intent to bruise and unbalance. Nala drops it only a second later, simply to free up her hands so that she might aim a fist for his jaw. She might not have a height or weight advantage, but what there is of her is muscle. By chance or her chosen timing, N'rov's momentarily distracted by a weed wrapping where it shouldn't; when that slicing movement enters his peripheral vision (or was it the sound?) reflex has him jumping higher than the arc of what he might have imagined was the blade, and while that sends her unexpected blow crashing against his shoulder instead of his jaw, coming down is definitely unbalanced and annoyed with his, "Shells!" When the first doesn't connect and the second lands not precisely where she intends, Nala doesn't bother throwing another punch - or doing anything more logical or elegant than following instinct - and just goes to shove at N'rov instead, perhaps hoping that only the motion of her moving towards him again will drive him off. "I said get out of my face," she enunciates very clearly, voice lower and quieter. It's the landing that's not so easy to stick, what with the off-balance and her dropped scythe and his scythe being a priority to keep track of, and then as he stumbles N'rov's hat falls off. It isn't even a favorite hat, his latest of those having gone missing under recent suspicious circumstances, but it's his hat. He's rising. She's shoving. He not only takes it but moves into it, him and the hard fist for her belly. Nala attempts to twist to avoid getting struck in return, yet momentum is not in her favour and she doesn't quite manage to place her feet right to lend her any support in her endeavour. She catches his fist just above her right hip and swallows down a shriek, an inhuman sound rising from the back of her throat, though rather than be sensible and back off and fall, she means to hook a foot behind his ankle and topple him that way. That's not going to happen. But neither are more hits heading her way; hers is a familiar move, countered accordingly as honed instinct kicks in. "Nala." Sharp, and hard as the blow. N'rov doesn't strive to down her, though he'll try to contain her if he must. Because he's just remembered, even though he hasn't looked, "They're watching." Her name is answered with another one of those low, frustrated noises that sounds like it really shouldn't rise from a human being, and Nala reaches a dead stop almost too near to N'rov, both hands gone (not of her own choosing) to clutch at her side. She glances up and beyond him, something feral in her dark gaze, and then, as she steps away, she lunges down to collect up her scythe. For a second or more, the swing of it might look like she really has lost it and is aiming for him, but all she does is bring it around to grasp the handle in a parallel grip and shove it at him, though not into him, punctuated with a savage little sound. Whether he takes over supporting the scythe or she has to cast it to the floor, the message is clear: she's done. His gaze is dark, and he's moving, adjusting for that swing as though she intends it for the worst; there's something like surprise when he compensates, taking it on with a grunt. "The fuck, Nala." N'rov's slower to balance the scythe with his own, focused on her, looking at her like he'd figure her out. If he could. If anyone can. "I told you to leave me alone!" Only now does her voice lift, though the effort seems to cost her, as she goes back to clasping her side, and no matter how she tries to stand tall, she can't quite straighten up completely. A darted glance here and there brings those staring holders into view, as well the heavier stare of the man they've ostensibly travelled along to support. It's the latter that does her in, and she turns to slink unevenly, guiltily past him, in search of her lifemate. Louder; conveniently louder, some might think. Whether N'rov does or not, he turns; he has that heavier stare to stand square and meet, two scythes to uphold, and perhaps even to cover the woman's retreat. |
Comments
Aleudre (17:33, 4 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Guys, this was a great scene. The pace and timing of the fight had me on the edge!
Shameful, if E'dre finds out he will be mad! But really.. awwweeesome!
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