NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:I Go Crazy

2016-03-10T07:22:23Z

Rand: Created page with "{{Log |who=Br'and, Br'and{{!}}Kahvaroeth |what=Well over a month after the Hatching, Br'and's is *still* having difficulty adjusting. Kahvaroeth...not so much. |where=Various..."

{{Log
|who=Br'and, Br'and{{!}}Kahvaroeth
|what=Well over a month after the Hatching, Br'and's is *still* having difficulty adjusting. Kahvaroeth...not so much.
|where=Various places within Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=23
|month=3
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.09
|quote=<< Br'and; how big are your hands?! >>
|weather=Cloudy, cool.
|mentions=Kh'tyr
|type=Vignette
|log=For what seemed like the billionth time in not more than a month, << Br'and; how big are your hands?! >> Kahvaroeth's smooth, deep tenor called out silently, carrying with it not only the brown's aire of easy command, but also a wave of abominable itching. So, of course, now *Br'and* was itching all over just as bad, too.

Hurrying like the devil was on his tail to get to the Weyrling cavern from his aborted attempt to finish his lunch in the living cavern, the tired and still vaguely bewildered tall teen voicelessly groaned to himself about his bad luck at Impressing ANY dragon, and at the stupid urge to look good in his mother's eyes (which, of course, was the reason behind him lingering on those hot Sands at *all*). The woman and her weyrmate had managed to 'corner' Br'and as he was trying to get something to eat, post-Hatching, and their bright grins and hearty, loving congratulations had only sent him into a further spiral of consternation.

He was CAUGHT, he was ROPED, he was BRANDED...more surely than any woman ever could have done so. And the super lousy thing (aside from losing his freedom) was that Kahvaroeth was pretty much a good 'guy'...who had chosen a lackadaisical wanderer and ne'er-do-well as a sidekick. Kahvaroeth's fault, of course...but whenever Br'and managed to actually scuff his brown's feelings, the human half always felt like a total asshole...because the brown always forgave him. Oh, there was work in it afterwards, for the teen - mental exercises or gymnastics of a sort meant to 'work on' the flawed Br'and, to improve him - but, really, life with Kahvaroeth's basic personality was at least better than what Kh'tyr apparently had with his Mograith.

<< It's funny; I thought with me being your wings and all that, you'd just wait for me. >> Until those times Kahvaroeth WASN'T as kind. On a tear, he could be downright arrogant at times, blase, and full of veiled sarcasm and stinging wit, which made Br'and want to punch, snarl at, or walk away from the runty little bastard (who so was *not* a literal bastard). After a mentally rejuvenating and quick, impromptu swirl of a fun dance (okay, and a smidgen of a kiss) Br'and had had with one of the lower caverns women a couple of days ago (between jogging to get dinner and walking back to the weyrling barracks to tend to the brown lump), the teen had found his waking lifemate offering him a scintilla of his rebuking, dry wit << Well...you look great, you smell great. But I could fire you if that would take the edge off? >> Because, this particular time, Kahvaroeth had wanted Br'and *there*, by his side, when he awoke...and was irked at the lack. A mental war of wills had taken place over it...with Br'and the one finally turning his back and 'walking' away. He'd always 'blink' first...and usually, he didn't care. Except Kahvaroeth somehow *made* him want to care, sometimes. Damnit!

It'd taken him weeks, but - from pure NEED - Br'and had finally been able to carve a small parcel of space out for himself within his own mind...a bit of privacy, one might call it. But sometimes Kahvaroeth still managed to 'read' his human, anyway, through that fuzzy and obscuring miasma of mental 'fog.' Those occasional bits of the brown's personality that made him snark and jab his wit didn't much care about that foggy wall...but the rest of him certainly *did* care. The larger parts of him that called Br'and his partner in 'crime' and his bestest buddy ever: thicker than blood or friendship, and loyal to the END forever and EVER.

Having *anyone* that close to him - inextricably tied to his very soul - still freaked Br'and the fuck OUT. Add to it someone who depended on Br'and for his very life, and who didn't just walk away, or rebuke angrily, or give up - someone who openly and honestly CARED - and the teen was backpedaling three-quarters of the time in how to deal with his new partner.

<< Pairs have to TRUST each other, Br'and. >> came the tired echo of the not-quite-so-runty brown's firm-enough thought - a few hours later - as his rider tried to fall asleep on his cot, now that the lights were all out, and everybody was exhausted, as usual. The warmth, concern, caring, and bone-deep CERTAINTY of Kahvaroeth's own belief in his flawed 'sidekick' flooded his human, scalp to toes.

And for once, it didn't make him want to cower or flee in fear. It almost felt like coming home.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Rude(ish) Awakening

2016-02-27T08:07:46Z

Rand: Created page with "{{Log |who=Breirande, N'rov |what=Late at night on a food run, Breirande unknowingly meets N'rov, and the two Weyr residents have an imprompteau chat. |where=FTW: NightHearth..."

{{Log
|who=Breirande, N'rov
|what=Late at night on a food run, Breirande unknowingly meets N'rov, and the two Weyr residents have an imprompteau chat.
|where=FTW: NightHearth
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.27
|quote="...No, you'd ''love'' it. Rainbows and everything."
|weather=Steady snowfall.
|mentions=E'dre, Kh'tyr
|type=Log
|icons-new=BreirandeMain.jpg, Icon n'rov.png
|log=It's 'lights out' time for the candidates, but when did such things ever stop a stomach from squalling loud enough to waken and *keep* awake Breirande? Apparently never, because - yet again - the tall teen is donning sloppy clothes, and slipping from the barracks into the nighthearth area, soon availing himself of a large bowl of whatever stew-type concoction the Kitchens keeps alive over the banked fire. Nobody at this later hour has ever seen him or bothered him yet, after all...so he just keeps on returning, when necessary. By this point in time, 'Rand is settled in one of the big stuffed chairs, a blanket casually tossed over him, eating away at said stew with hearty appetite...and heavily-lidded eyes.

That's when an abominable snowman tromps in, except this one must be a leper, for he's lost most of the chunks of ice that had coated him; the few remaining pieces huddle in the crevices of his leathers, melting or threatening to fall or both. Said snowman pushes back his hood, though it reveals only a balaclava beneath, and grunts at what passes for humanity on his way to the hearth.

Abominable snow leper, meet sluggardly sandman. With no knot to identify him, 'Rand is just another Weyr resident getting a very late meal, apparently, and - while his eyes first widen a tad guiltily when he jerks gaze up to stare at the 'leper' - he soon slips back into his whole 'nobody' guise, taking up eating once again after an answering grunt back. On occasion, those grey-blue eyes raise and lower to keep him assessed of the other guy's intent.

Currently, the intent seems to involve ''warmth''. And, soon, ''food''. A first bite later, make that a would-be first bite, N'rov stops with a grimace that's all too visible even through the knitted fabric; he tugs the gear off, revealing hair that isn't messy and sweaty only by dint of how short it is, and marks on his face from his gear that soon begin to disappear. Then he's leaning back against the hearth, his backside starting to steam, and... starts to stare at Breirande. Or maybe he's just eating, and ''happens'' to be looking the lad's way, because why not.

Later in the night will tend to keep things more quiet in the Weyr, and 'Rand was all too glad to not have to chat with aunties or uncles...or the occasional Kitchen worker or even 'rider that have 'pestered' him on previous excursions to the 'hearth. Tonight, however...there's a snow-'leper' eating, warming up...and peering at him. A sudden, massive yawn can't be held back, the teen soon replacing it with more food in his yap, followed by a low, quiet, "Hello." Sounds more neutral than welcoming, really.

"Evenin'." N'rov, conveniently, doesn't pester. He just eats, and looks, more or less: the boy, the way he's dressed, how he carries himself, the invisible yet possibly lurid sign on his forehead if the growing crook to the rider's mouth is any indication. Then he pushes off, leaving what's left in his bowl on the mantel, heading for the towels.

Dressed like a slob suddenly out of his bed: check. Rumpled old clothes and rumpled hair: check,, though neither of them stink, thankfully. Carrying himself like a tired teen, check: proud enough to fight his urge to fall asleep while eating, and only partially succeeding, since he continues yawning a few times. It's that potential 'invisible sign' - well, more like N'rov's continuing gaze and increasing smirk - that finally have 'Rand looking directly into snow-dude's grey gaze as he only slightly-sullenly inquires, "What?" just before N'rov rises and nabs up a towel.

It doesn't slow him any, the bronzerider sauntering over without so much as a hitch in his stride. He wraps that towel about his head and scrubs before replying, amused, "What, 'what.'" Like Breirande could, genuinely, mean all ''sorts'' of things.

"You were lookin' at me like I had a tattoo on my face, or something..." Breirande mumbles around another spoon of stew, his tone a little guarded, kept from being truly cranky or too teenager-ish by his tiredness...and his 'couldn't be assed' attitude. Playing at adult already, eh, kid?

"Yeah?" N'rov gives him another look, this one ''seriously'' looking; then, with a shake of his head, "Don't see one. Know a guy who does. Well, a couple. One had a Threadscore, got it made into a," he gestures onto his own face, across one cheekbone and down to pull against his mouth. "Design. Thing. Don't know what it looked like before he got wrinkled, but it's reasonably impressive now."

"Count me relieved..." 'Rand murmurs with some cockiness, though he drops it rapidly while grinding at one sleepy eye with the back of his knuckles, finally to look up in honest consideration at N'rov when the man speaks of threadscores and tatts. Okay; count the often blase teen somewhat impressed...he's even thinking about that some before inquiring a little more 'delicately,' "Does it work, then?" The design incorporating the scar. Beat. "Does he live here?"

"He likes it, good enough for me," N'rov supposes. But, "Live here? Nope," and the bronzerider pops the 'p,' as a passing thing rather than more solid punctuation. "Off at Benden. The way he tells it, he was flying up into the sun, and got out of line. Popped ''between'' just in time." He's wiping down his coat now. "The way he tells it when he's had drinks in him, he was supposed to cover his wingmate, who died." The gray gaze rests on Breirande. 'When he's had ''more'' drinks... but that might be cheerful enough for you already."

That 'popped' 'P' is what gets Breirande nodding to N'rov, the teen making a low whistle of appropriate appreciation for the 'just in time' comment of the Benden rider. When the next bit comes, though, his expression instantly shifts to concerned, even a little guilty...definitely darker. It doesn't stop him from eating, though. Again, priorities. Nod. After some moments for more thought, a cautious, "I might be wrong in assumin' you're a rider..." a jerk of his chin is given to those riding leathers to show what might have tipped him off "...But if you are...what's it like?" Another gesture - a sort-of sloppy scribble of fingers near his temple - indicates exactly what he means.

N'rov must read that expression, but he doesn't stop him from eating either. Priorities, indeed. "Which part of it? Impression, dragon talking, dragon listening, ''my'' dragon, knowing I'll die if he does, knowing he'll die if I do? For starters.' Either details were lost in translation, or N'rov never was that good at reading finger-scribble, but he seems patient enough for the moment.

Some riders he's asked before have just left him standing there in silence, so Breirande quietly appreciates N'rov's receptivity to his sudden inquiry. "More about...two in one head. Personalities...challenges versus easy fits." He won't go as far as to say he's talked to enough other 'riders about this subject, because that would be a dead giveaway as to his status.

"I got lucky," N'rov tells him with a crook of a smile. "My challenge, he's the right fit. Now, the ''last'' wingleader I had, he gets headaches all the time from his dragon. Then again, he's pretty fun to spin up and shoot sparks, so I can't say I blame Wroth... except when E's cranky enough to get the rest of us cranky, but that doesn't happen so much anymore. Think of it this way: hardass or sweet young thing, you'd probably like it. No, you'd ''love'' it. Rainbows and everything."

The look on Breirande's face says it all: Lucky, eh? A faint dimple of a near-smirk upon one side of mouth shows up on the teen's face, though his eyes betray only guarded amusement. Only after another spoonful of stew is down the hatch does 'Rand note, "Sure I would...'cept you forgot to mention the ones like Kh'tyr and his brown." Point scored; gotcha! This time, the kid's smirk is wider. Again in cocky fashion is murmured, "My ass," before he's back to eating and looking at N'rov for the other's response.

There's scoring, and then there's scoring; "Yeah, you're no Kh'tyr," N'rov's grin slow and easy with a sort of sheathed sharpness: going easy on the boy. More or less. "You could do worse."

He sees that devil in N'rov's expression, and 'Rand is both cautioned and yet intrigued by it...finally giving in to the latter with an exploratory, "Lucky me. Imagine two of him everywhere." Smirk. "He outright admitted to me both he and his dragon are assholes." And what does N'rov think of that?

"Do you think that was supposed to fend you off," N'rov inquires, gray eyes lucent before they drop that he might switch one towel for the next, "or entice you?"

Okay; N'rov's response now officially has the tired teen thinking a little bit more (well, as much as his brain can, right now) instead of firing off smooth (or maybe not-so-smooth) ripostes...and it shows. His features take on an unguarded moue of cogitation around another mouthful of stew, the kid finally shaking his head a couple of times. "Neither. It was just...was." Beat. "Is." Shrug. "Reality...and a not pleasant one, either."

N'rov's efficient about concluding his drying off, practiced enough to transfer the water where it needs to go without paying much attention to the task. "Has it?" A beat. "Fended you off, in its lack of pleasantness."

Another shrug is given for N'rov's rejoinder, 'Rand now scooping up the last of his stew...and looking at it for awhile. "I suppose..." A small chew of his lower lip presages another look up to the other man, and a slightly intense, "So, he wants me to not bother, then? Maybe I shouldn't." Nevermind that he said he'd go out and Stand, anyway.

The subtle shrug N'rov gives him is neither a yes or a no. "That I'm not saying," he says, a slight pull to his mouth turning wry as though sympathy tastes peculiar on his tongue; that, or the bowl he's just reclaimed has gotten cold. "You were the one there. For all I know he wants you ''to'' bother, to not take the safe and easy life. Maybe he just wants you to go in with your eyes open, so you know the wool wasn't pulled over them. Maybe he just wants to fly that asshole flag. Which they can be, but that's hardly all that they are."

Thanks for nothing. Snert. That's the look Breirande's now giving N'rov for his first answer, the teen shoveling in his last mouthful of stew, and chewing around a large sigh. Finally he ventures, "I think people like him get their jollies off being the way they are, screwing around with others' heads." The dark look in light eyes, the frown and nose-wrinkle again say it all: if so, he's NOT playing *that* little game.

That's time enough for N'rov to finish his, as efficiently as the rest, and set his bowl atop the other dirty dishes. "Ask yourself," he suggests before moving to depart, "Even if that were so, what else he'd have to be to be well-respected: enough that three different weyrlingmasters have trusted them with their vulnerable charges. Ask yourself what you haven't seen." If there's time to catch him, there isn't much. "Good luck."

He hadn't thought of it that way, before: Kh'tyr must have *something* worth him being allowed around vulnerable weyrlings. Still, it's hard for 'Rand to see it, especially right now. Tired. And finally half-full, again, his stomach quiet enough for sleep, once more. N'rov's comments earn him a slight bob of dark blonde head, and his' good luck' a vague look of surprise, followed by a twist of lips. Obviously he was still too direct to hide his candidate status. "Thanks..." is rumbled tiredly to the departing bronzerider, the teen soon enough rising, depositing his own dirty dishes in the tub, and wandering back off towards the barracks to fall asleep again within 10 minutes. He's still too young and relatively unencumbered to do the 'stay up and worry all night' thing very well.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

File:BreirandeSeductive.JPG

2016-02-20T01:39:54Z

Rand:

File:BreirandeOhREALLY.JPG

2016-02-20T01:39:28Z

Rand:

File:BreirandeContemplative.JPG

2016-02-20T01:38:54Z

Rand:

Logs:Buns

2016-02-19T08:38:07Z

Rand:

{{Log
|who=Breirande, Catling
|what=Two candidates visiting the Galleries wind up eating and exchanging a few words.
|where=Fort Weyr: Galleries
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.18
|quote="...I won't tell anyone you ate my buns."
|weather=Steady snow.
|type=Log
|log=His portion of chores done for the day, a slightly-damp Breirande - fresh from the baths - ambles towards the Galleries. He's quick to assess the mood of any dragons down on the Sands (or hiding in other places), and finding things 'okay,' picks his way along stone stairs, looking for a likely seat.

Catling is done with her chores as well. She's a bit damp too, though it's hard to tell if it's from the laundry she was helping with or a bath. Maybe both. She comes to the galleries with a small basket, and from the basket the scent of warm buns is rising. Seeing Breirande she pauses, then nods her head before coming closer.

He's found a good spot - free from the likes of little kids or boring adults, free from anyone, really - and plunked his butt down on a bench. And then there's the scent of those buns on the air. Tantalizing. Making 'Rand salivate and his stomach growl quite suddenly. Even before Catling's moving closer or nodding to him, the tall teen is eyeing her thoughtfully, and finally offering her a quick hint of a smile and his own brief nod. If he remembers his first meeting with the other candidate a month or more ago, it's not showing, now.

The girl smiles back -- a shy smile, sure, but friendly enough. She comes closer, then takes a seat. She settles the basket beside her, then looks at the older teen. "I... erm... probably have more than I can eat. Apparently I look perpetually underfed, and they're trying to fatten me up, or something. Anyway." She chuckles. "I think we met before. I mean, more than just in passing. I'm Catling."

Breirande's not shy, that's for sure, and though he's not necessarily super-outgoing, either, the tall teen's mostly at ease around others...and it shows when he simply accepts what Catling has to say, accepts her manner, and just nods, cocks his chin down at the bench beside him. "I remember...Catling." He didn't get her name back then, given the situation they 'met' in. "Breirande... Just 'Rand, though." Smirk. Everyone seems to call him that in the Barracks. As for the girl's waifishness, he just shrugs strong shoulders, murmurs in lightest baritone, "You eat as much as you *want* to, when you will." Beat. "But... I'll help those kitchen workers feel better about you, if you want the help." Grey-blue eyes twinkle merrily, and he cants a definite look at those warm buns in the basket. May he?

Her lips twitch into a smirk, and Catling holds out the basket to Breirande. "Help yourself," she breathes. "I've put on weight since I got here. That's the sad thing." A soft laugh, and then she reaches up and takes down her hair. THen she blinks, and begins to laugh softly, her cheeks flushing. "Please. I missed lunch, so, this is my in-between meal."

He'll happily take a couple of those buns, and start to tuck into one with the barely-restrained, near-rabid gusto of someone still eating to attain their full growth, a toothy grin soon flashed back to Catling for her words. At some point, 'Rand does stop his eating to shake his head, nab up another bun, and try to pop it into the girl's mouth. "They should've given you better than mere buns for a missed lunch," he sort-of admonishes. "There's the stew or chili or whatever that's almost constantly going in the nigh hearth." He should know: the teen's raided it enough...even in the dead of the night, sneaking out of the Barracks to assuage his near-constant hunger, it seems.

"Well, I think they wanted me to take more, but this is enough. They're stuffed, after all. But don't worry. I won't tell anyone you ate my buns." Catling turns her head to look at the eggs, sighing a little. "I wonder what they'll be like," she breathes "What do you want them to call you, if you Impress?"

Well, even if he couldn't get that bun into her mouth, 'Rand tries to place the thing in Catling's hand, even trying to nudge at it so she eats *something*. "Try just the stew, next time. Everybody *our* general ages needs protein." Smirk. Finishing up one bun and lifting the second to his lips, the tall teen manages to get out a chortle and then turns his unconcerned gaze to the eggs down below. After some longer seconds for thought, he merely shrugs, takes a bite, and answers around a half-full mouth, "As long as they don't slash or bite us..." It's not important. Shrug. "Eh. Don't much care, really. Well... not 'B'rier,' though." Because UGH. Frown.

"B'rand, maybe?" Catling takes the bun, now, flushing. "Sorry. I.... erm." She giggles softly, then shakes herself. "There's cheese inside, and a bit of meat in a couple of them," she protests. "And I'm honestly not used to .... well. I've been here five months now. Still getting used to a meal's worth of protein more than once or maybe twice a sevenday. So. Now I have it maybe once a day. The meat seems so very rich." She nibbles daintily.

"Sounds okay..." 'Rand murmurs in agreement with that elided name, the older teen not looking concerned, nor terribly interested in 'dragon stuff,' though he does grin at the contents of the buns. "Not nearly enough for growing bones...so my mother likes to harp." Eyeroll, smirk. Mothers. Blink. "Come from a tiny cothold, or something?" is inquired around another bite. Mmm. So *delicious!* "Minecraft'd always feed us well...or they'd not get any solid work out of anyone." A small grunt of knowing laughter quiets quickly as thought of the dragons out there returns. "Not good food, of course. They keep the best for the students and Crafters." Snerk.

"Tiny cothold. My stepmother didn't really.... ah... appreciate my existence. My father.... loved me in a... sad sort of way. So." Catling shrugs. "When there was enough food... but when there wasn't, his sons got the biggest share." She shrugs, biting her lip. "So. I don't think I've eaten as much as I wanted for ever so long. I still worry I'll get told to put things back, you know? I managed to work, whether I was hungry or not. It was... best that way."

Nobody's ever called 'Rand the most politic of teens. So when Catling talks of her past, the older youth looks a little outraged, a bit disgusted, and a tiny bit pitying. "Good thing I'm not in any position to 'talk' with your stepmother and father, and your 'brothers.'" One large fist curls slightly, then relents with another nip of bun. Grey-blue eyes flick away from the eggs to look into the girl's light greens, assessing her. Shrug. "Kind'a understand."

"Plague took my father. Stepmother kicked me out, and my stepbrothers are just little children. Isn't their fault." Catling shakes her head. "But it's kind of you, and I appreciate it."

Oh. Well, the first one sort-of levels the playing field, in Breirande's mind. "I had it, too. Healers say I pulled through because I'm strong...younger, I guess." He looks a little sobered by his brush with death, seeks to push aside the attendant feelings with more bun ingestion. Stepmother, however, gets a dark look, then a shrug. He's in no position to put things right. "Ah. Kidlettes. Yeah...too small ta know what's up," is for her half brothers. Psh. Her thanks gets the older teen's lightest brush-off and a faint smile, before he's next looking for yet another of those damned-good buns. Before they get cold.

"I had it too. But..." Catling sighs, looking down. "Better place now. I... erm... here. I'm not...." She shoves the basket towards him, bites her lip, and then leaps up and dashes off without another word.

Well, he's not the most empathetic sort, but 'Rand isn't going to let Catling disappear without even trying to follow her. Bun in hand, he watches the girl retreat in cofusion for only a few seconds, shakes his head, then is up and off after her...seeking to make certain she's just enough 'okay' to not require his company any further. Sometimes people just want to be left alone, after all.
|Categories=FTW Clutch Logs
}}

Logs:Buns

2016-02-19T08:37:42Z

Rand: Buns (and later on, lips) are delicious and perhaps problematic.

{{Log
|who=Breirande Catling
|what=Two candidates visiting the Galleries wind up eating and exchanging a few words.
|where=Fort Weyr: Galleries
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.18
|quote="...I won't tell anyone you ate my buns."
|weather=Steady snow.
|type=Log
|log=His portion of chores done for the day, a slightly-damp Breirande - fresh from the baths - ambles towards the Galleries. He's quick to assess the mood of any dragons down on the Sands (or hiding in other places), and finding things 'okay,' picks his way along stone stairs, looking for a likely seat.

Catling is done with her chores as well. She's a bit damp too, though it's hard to tell if it's from the laundry she was helping with or a bath. Maybe both. She comes to the galleries with a small basket, and from the basket the scent of warm buns is rising. Seeing Breirande she pauses, then nods her head before coming closer.

He's found a good spot - free from the likes of little kids or boring adults, free from anyone, really - and plunked his butt down on a bench. And then there's the scent of those buns on the air. Tantalizing. Making 'Rand salivate and his stomach growl quite suddenly. Even before Catling's moving closer or nodding to him, the tall teen is eyeing her thoughtfully, and finally offering her a quick hint of a smile and his own brief nod. If he remembers his first meeting with the other candidate a month or more ago, it's not showing, now.

The girl smiles back -- a shy smile, sure, but friendly enough. She comes closer, then takes a seat. She settles the basket beside her, then looks at the older teen. "I... erm... probably have more than I can eat. Apparently I look perpetually underfed, and they're trying to fatten me up, or something. Anyway." She chuckles. "I think we met before. I mean, more than just in passing. I'm Catling."

Breirande's not shy, that's for sure, and though he's not necessarily super-outgoing, either, the tall teen's mostly at ease around others...and it shows when he simply accepts what Catling has to say, accepts her manner, and just nods, cocks his chin down at the bench beside him. "I remember...Catling." He didn't get her name back then, given the situation they 'met' in. "Breirande... Just 'Rand, though." Smirk. Everyone seems to call him that in the Barracks. As for the girl's waifishness, he just shrugs strong shoulders, murmurs in lightest baritone, "You eat as much as you *want* to, when you will." Beat. "But... I'll help those kitchen workers feel better about you, if you want the help." Grey-blue eyes twinkle merrily, and he cants a definite look at those warm buns in the basket. May he?

Her lips twitch into a smirk, and Catling holds out the basket to Breirande. "Help yourself," she breathes. "I've put on weight since I got here. That's the sad thing." A soft laugh, and then she reaches up and takes down her hair. THen she blinks, and begins to laugh softly, her cheeks flushing. "Please. I missed lunch, so, this is my in-between meal."

He'll happily take a couple of those buns, and start to tuck into one with the barely-restrained, near-rabid gusto of someone still eating to attain their full growth, a toothy grin soon flashed back to Catling for her words. At some point, 'Rand does stop his eating to shake his head, nab up another bun, and try to pop it into the girl's mouth. "They should've given you better than mere buns for a missed lunch," he sort-of admonishes. "There's the stew or chili or whatever that's almost constantly going in the nigh hearth." He should know: the teen's raided it enough...even in the dead of the night, sneaking out of the Barracks to assuage his near-constant hunger, it seems.

"Well, I think they wanted me to take more, but this is enough. They're stuffed, after all. But don't worry. I won't tell anyone you ate my buns." Catling turns her head to look at the eggs, sighing a little. "I wonder what they'll be like," she breathes "What do you want them to call you, if you Impress?"

Well, even if he couldn't get that bun into her mouth, 'Rand tries to place the thing in Catling's hand, even trying to nudge at it so she eats *something*. "Try just the stew, next time. Everybody *our* general ages needs protein." Smirk. Finishing up one bun and lifting the second to his lips, the tall teen manages to get out a chortle and then turns his unconcerned gaze to the eggs down below. After some longer seconds for thought, he merely shrugs, takes a bite, and answers around a half-full mouth, "As long as they don't slash or bite us..." It's not important. Shrug. "Eh. Don't much care, really. Well... not 'B'rier,' though." Because UGH. Frown.

"B'rand, maybe?" Catling takes the bun, now, flushing. "Sorry. I.... erm." She giggles softly, then shakes herself. "There's cheese inside, and a bit of meat in a couple of them," she protests. "And I'm honestly not used to .... well. I've been here five months now. Still getting used to a meal's worth of protein more than once or maybe twice a sevenday. So. Now I have it maybe once a day. The meat seems so very rich." She nibbles daintily.

"Sounds okay..." 'Rand murmurs in agreement with that elided name, the older teen not looking concerned, nor terribly interested in 'dragon stuff,' though he does grin at the contents of the buns. "Not nearly enough for growing bones...so my mother likes to harp." Eyeroll, smirk. Mothers. Blink. "Come from a tiny cothold, or something?" is inquired around another bite. Mmm. So *delicious!* "Minecraft'd always feed us well...or they'd not get any solid work out of anyone." A small grunt of knowing laughter quiets quickly as thought of the dragons out there returns. "Not good food, of course. They keep the best for the students and Crafters." Snerk.

"Tiny cothold. My stepmother didn't really.... ah... appreciate my existence. My father.... loved me in a... sad sort of way. So." Catling shrugs. "When there was enough food... but when there wasn't, his sons got the biggest share." She shrugs, biting her lip. "So. I don't think I've eaten as much as I wanted for ever so long. I still worry I'll get told to put things back, you know? I managed to work, whether I was hungry or not. It was... best that way."

Nobody's ever called 'Rand the most politic of teens. So when Catling talks of her past, the older youth looks a little outraged, a bit disgusted, and a tiny bit pitying. "Good thing I'm not in any position to 'talk' with your stepmother and father, and your 'brothers.'" One large fist curls slightly, then relents with another nip of bun. Grey-blue eyes flick away from the eggs to look into the girl's light greens, assessing her. Shrug. "Kind'a understand."

"Plague took my father. Stepmother kicked me out, and my stepbrothers are just little children. Isn't their fault." Catling shakes her head. "But it's kind of you, and I appreciate it."

Oh. Well, the first one sort-of levels the playing field, in Breirande's mind. "I had it, too. Healers say I pulled through because I'm strong...younger, I guess." He looks a little sobered by his brush with death, seeks to push aside the attendant feelings with more bun ingestion. Stepmother, however, gets a dark look, then a shrug. He's in no position to put things right. "Ah. Kidlettes. Yeah...too small ta know what's up," is for her half brothers. Psh. Her thanks gets the older teen's lightest brush-off and a faint smile, before he's next looking for yet another of those damned-good buns. Before they get cold.

"I had it too. But..." Catling sighs, looking down. "Better place now. I... erm... here. I'm not...." She shoves the basket towards him, bites her lip, and then leaps up and dashes off without another word.

Well, he's not the most empathetic sort, but 'Rand isn't going to let Catling disappear without even trying to follow her. Bun in hand, he watches the girl retreat in cofusion for only a few seconds, shakes his head, then is up and off after her...seeking to make certain she's just enough 'okay' to not require his company any further. Sometimes people just want to be left alone, after all.
|Categories=FTW Clutch Logs
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2016-02-10T08:15:29Z

Rand:

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2016-02-10T08:07:28Z

Rand: