Difference between revisions of "Logs:'Teaching' Leova Self-Defense"

Leova reports in, still riding that too-much-klah energy that got her through the afternoon's lectures. Trying for placid. More like jittery. Vrianth's with her, of course, first through the door and flowing back behind and around the Weyrlingmaster's desk. Leova, once she's made sure I'daur's chair is still in one piece, approaches N'thei from behind and to the side, just out of what his reach looks to be. "Weyrleader. Sir."

N'thei, yet to turn around; "Ah timely. Improvement." He unclasps his hands to gesture vaguely toward the chart, to flop his fingers at it in a dismissive way, all rubbish. Now he turns, glances a smile across weyrling while he brings her into focus, far less interested in the dragon that tags along. "Take a guess. What will we be training." Up go the eyebrows, poised for her response.

Leova tacks on a salute while she's at it. Less timely. "Not anatomy. Let's say, formations." It's something to say: could be anything. Could be keeping tricks up her sleeves. Vrianth, meanwhile, takes advantage of the situation to crouch low and be entirely ignorable. For once. Not that she isn't radiating broadband high-def anticipation, and not shy about keeping it to herself, either.

"Timely but not very bright yet. Pity." N'thei slings off his jacket at that, tosses it across I'daur's desk with a careless air, and sets at once to rolling up his shirtsleeves till they reach his elbows. "Combat, my dear girl. Hand-to-hand combat. Show me your fist." He approaches Leova directly now, his eyes on her hand, his own fingers outstretched to pluck said fist from the air.

That's enough to narrow Leova's eyes and send Vrianth fairly vibrating with the uneasy energy the young green broadcasts. She hesitates, then copies him when it comes to jacket and shirtsleeves, glancing briefly down at her front: no stains. Lacings secure. When she raises her fist it's her right hand, slowly and from the shoulder, thumb out. Looking at him.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth goes hunting. Down the sense-of-human-/him/, through back alleys and abandoned courtyards where the wind whistles through. Looking for the connection, hunting for Wyaeth.

Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth don't much care for getting involved in what his rider's doing, but he acknowledges the young green with a howdy-there presence, a yawning drawl. « Yeeeeah? »

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth has some of that same twang in her gravelly voice, and it turns out to amplify when around her sire. « You. Just checkin'. » With no 'just' about it.

No point pretending he's not frustrated already; N'thei snorts. "I said your fist, not your hand." He rearranges Leova's hand, turning in her thumb, tightening her fingers, his own hand unforgivingly calloused where it scrapes the digits in line. "Goes here." More rearranging while he pushes the fold of her elbow, pulls on her wrist to put her new fist in a guard at her chin. The other hand soon follows, marionetting the weyrling into some semblance of a decent guard. "That's where you want your fists, not sticking out in the middle of the air. See, I come at you like this." A slow-motion jab toward her hopefully protected chin.

Wyaeth> I bespoke Vrianth with « Don't worry. He ain't broken a weyrling's bones. » Seen it a mile away; « Yet. »

Leova inhales sharply, deliberately not fighting the way he works on her, like she doesn't expect otherwise: her joints aren't loose but neither do they resist much, and she shifts her weight when he alters her arms. "Right." Good thing it's slow-motion: when she moves to block, it's with her forearm. "People really do that? Straightforward like that." Vrianth hunkers lower, her tail beginning to swish, still with that energy that's electric in what could be stale air.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth's sending shifts to minute sparks within the gravel. Yet. « You'd remember? »

N'thei continues to pay Vrianth no more mind than he would a tapestry caught in a draft. "People do a lot of things, best to be prepared for all of them." His tone beckons agreement. "From here, like this, you can keep yourself from getting clocked in the face at least." He puts up his own guard as an example, hunkers down below it a few degrees; "You're too little to take much of a beating. Have you ever been in a real fight?"

Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth might. He shrugs off the question, real careless, brittle interest in the subject when it comes to that. « Just don't worry. »

And gets it with a nod, amber eyes that much more intent: that much she can sign onto. Leova tries mirroring his posture in that beginner's way, hands level, moving lower and then higher on the balls of her feet. "Thought so at the time." But. "Not like that." Her glance touches on his scars. Eye. Nose. The side of his mouth. Who knows, who can tell what else. "That why you're teaching?" Some doubt there, still, though she tries to keep it out of her voice. Vrianth is silent.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth's gravel rattles. « Easy for you to say. » That's low. Less so, « How should she... deal with him? » Hers. Precious. His. Foreign. I

"Maybe." N'thei takes a step back from Leova then, measures out what's likely the reach of his arm from her face with the distance between them. "Maybe also that I'daur's crippled. --So I've got twice your weight and nearly a foot on you. You have to know that, if I get a piece of you, you'll be laid out. Best bet?" Aside from the raised eyebrows and attentive expression, his posture means business, set for fists to fly at a moment's notice.

Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth sounds casual, slow drawl and whiskey-warmth in his voice; « Run'd be my best suggestion. »

Leova takes her own step back. Mirror, mirror. She doesn't twitch at that, at his actually saying that: crippled. But she does blink, as good as. "Get out of there." She's got an eye on the exits, though she doesn't run. Yet. "Yell. Get help." Vrianth, silent, maybe even ignored, flows away from the desk and towards the man as quiet as dragon paws can.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth starts to relax into his warmth, that casualness, something she'd so like to believe. But catches herself. « She can't run forever. » And now there's a sense of quietness, of motion. Perhaps it's a leaf she's hunting.

"Then run." N'thei looks toward the barracks, toward the bowl, toward Leova with a doubtful twinge behind his smile. "There's a chance you can outpace me over so short a distance. --Or you can fight." That's the option he's hoping for, the one that has him lunge at her point-blank, grab for her arm or shoulder, belt-loop or hair, whatever he can get a piece of before she can get clear. He still has no mind for Vrianth, blind to the dragon's slink.

Wyaeth> I bespoke Vrianth with « Like hell she can't! » Unflattering, an image of N'thei winded, puffed breaths, buckets of sweat, somehow the idea that he hasn't run so very far to get tapped. « Don't matter. Leova ain't giving the right answers, better just to rough-it-up and hope she can look better next time. »

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth casts that image into stone. For later. « I will, » she agrees with him. And does.

Is he serious? He might be serious. He looks serious. Not much older, maybe. Big. Scars. That look. Would he go after a weyrling? Right here? But it's a lesson. That kind of lesson? Eyes on him, Leova shivers. Full-body. Doesn't look at Vrianth, she's that focused. Maybe she doesn't realize. And she bolts: not directly for the exit but for the chair, not one of the stone ones but the wooden one Niena had brought over by the desk just the other night. Something to throw, if she can get that far, slow him down, maybe. She tries. And a heartbeat later, Vrianth lunges. Her rider shrieks.

N'thei might have had Leova. The chair was a good thought, and he has to push that aside, which slows him from being able to clamp a hand around the girl. Even at that, he just manages to graze fingertips toward her forearm when he's checked by Vrianth, even bigger than he is. The green shoulder against his own upper body fouls his already offset balance, tips him headlong to a roll, leaves him scrabbling to catch the green by a wing before he falls over completely. Once he's got his balance back, this will probably be bad! Right now, he's a mess of his-limbs and Vrianth's-limbs.

Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth, spectator; « Stupid. »

One might think Leova would have the good sense not to reenter the fray. Stupid. But her Vrianth's in there. Even as Vrianth hisses, tugging reflexively at her wing and surging in a tight knot to get back at the one tugging at it, she snarls. No other word for it. Leaps. Right into the mess. Trying to use what momentum she does have and get N'thei down, away from Vrianth's wing. Away from her claws. Away from where her dragon's defending her, away to where Vrianth can see she's all right. If she still is.

For her efforts, Leova is likely to get elbowed, shoved, shoulder-checked; N'thei tries hard to get the weyrling out of the way before matters get worse, to get himself free of Vrianth's wing right as he figures out what's just happened. "/Enough!/" The shout breaks through bluntly, cuts the quiet of the room, and gets reinforced by the very-firm-hands that land on Leova's arms to drag the both of them out of the way. Bruises and scrapes are sure to ensue, story of N'thei's life.

Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth can be commanding when he's gotta, not the scream that N'thei uses but flint-lock firmness. « Enough! »

Leova doesn't take it lightly, getting her own chapter in the bruises-and-scrapes story, right down to the aching ribs, wings and claws and Vrianth's sheer protective rage a smothering blanket around them. But then there's that twin shout. It halts her, likely even sooner than it would have before Vrianth, at first a dead weight dragged and then stumbling for distance, clutching back at him for dear life. Trying to look back at Vrianth at the same time. The dragon's head swings, and she hisses again, but at air this time. Her eyes are yellower now, losing the red. Her wings rise toward the ceiling and slowly, slowly begin to furl. Leova pants for breath.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth hisses, that vise grip shocking her out of her lunge. She would have gotten him. She would have. For her.

N'thei drops the dead-weight after about six feet, practically tosses Leova away from him once they're both free of Vrianth. Largely unhurt, a new tear in his pants and a little ooze of blood from his calf where a talon got him, a swell at the corner of his mouth where a wingbone smacked him, he straightens up with a glare at the girl; "Should I have spelled out that this lesson was for /you/?" He flings a scraped hand to indicate meddlesome Vrianth, looks pissed.

Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth ain't arguing, done made his point.

And with impeccable timing, I'daur limps in the door right then, stopping in the middle of it to survey the scene, to take in the scuffled trio of N'thei, Leova, and Vrianth. Raising a brow, but not announcing his presence just yet, he instead moves to lean up against the doorframe idly, watching while they sort themselves out from the fray.

Leova lands hard against the table's edge. More bruises. She doesn't thank N'thei for them. "You're the one who's supposed to know!" Getting herself up with a grimace, nowhere near to noticing I'daur, voice gone even more rough than usual, "Y'think what you were doing was fair?!" Running to Vrianth, make that limping. Throwing her arms around her and yelling at her, too, at the very same time. Nothing like a reunion.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth, now that she's been called down, might be a little abashed. But also proud. Of course, a few months ago, she was proud of defending her Leova against a rampaging trundlebug.

N'thei's whole posture changes when 'fair' comes into play; while he tests his lip for blood, none there, with the back of his hand to his mouth, he slants his head and gives Leova a really-now look. "You think I care about what's fair?" Still sounds mad, boiling-point mad, and watching the girl cuddle her dragon only makes his jaw twitch the faster. "A little help, I'daur, or someone's going to get choked soon." Not it.

"You do when you're sayin' the lesson's just for me," Leova retorts with that thickening TIllek accent, only her head turning, the rest of her pressed as tightly to Vrianth as she can get. "When you should've known."

At length, I'daur drawls, "Gotta watch out for the little girl ones. They're tough." A smirk cast at N'thei, he adds, "That how they got you back at Crom, Weyrleader?" This is his version of help, apparently. "Y'know, not sure just throwing 'em straight into a brawl with somebody twice their size is the best way to go about it."

N'thei snaps; "What I should have known is that you're bleeping incapable of controlling your bleeping dragon and need more bleeping help than I can bleeping provide." Replace the bleeps with the more colorful language appropriate to the esteemed weyrleader. "--Advice heeded. Next time, I'll just give them bleeping lollipops and tell them to make daisy chains for anyone that looks cross at them." He opens his hands toward Leova and Vrianth imperatively, gestures I'daur toward them; do something with your weyrling already.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth lets it be known that /she/ is not to be /controlled/. Even if , well, Wyaeth basically just did.

Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth swats at mental flies, so much does Vrianth fail to ruffle his feathers. He can be roused when it's mandatory, but the moment's past and what does he care who's bleeding or who's huffy so long as it ain't him?

"You scared her!" Leova argues. That was it. Scared. Vrianth does not seem to be signing onto this, but then, she's behind her Leova and the now mostly green, barely yellow-flecked eyes can't be seen. By her. "Don't you go scaring her. Should've known, acting like that." That's more of a mutter, starting to calm some. She gives I'daur a grateful look and Vrianth even deigns to follow her towards the man. So one of her fingersails is a little bruised where it had been grabbed. She's not going to let on.

Wyaeth senses that Vrianth somehow doesn't seem to connect the mental flies with Vrianth herself. She dodges, looks around for them, and then finally just settles in. Humming a little, fingersail or no fingersail. Happy.

"Play nice with my weyrlings," I'daur tells N'thei, though the warning's mild. "You okay? Vrianth, she didn't hurt nothing?" He looks to Leova, glancing both her and the green over as they approach. To N'thei again, "S'what I got Persie for, but thanks anyway. So just what /did/ happen here?" A brow raises as he looks between weyrling and Weyrleader.

The diatribe that ensues when N'thei realizes his pants are ripped is so peppered with curses that it's better to leave it to the imagination, impossible to do it justice. "I'll tell you what happened, idiot girl didn't think she ought to explain that /I wasn't going to hurt her/ and damn near got us both trampled. Why don't we trot Talien in here and let her see what happens when you don't pay attention to what your dragon's doing?" Too many kinds of mad, he marches out of the room with a new limp for his efforts and a dwindling oath to give up trying to do anything helpful, all ends in tears.

Leova murmurs, "She says not," trying not to limp and to look back at her dragon, too. Who just gives her rainbowed eyes. Suspiciously so, apparently. "Might feel it more later." Though Persie's name lifts her head, she doesn't smile. Just looks over at N'thei. Departing N'thei. Hard-to-argue-with-now N'thei. Back at I'daur. Finally, "I'm sorry for the ruckus, sir. Didn't know... didn't know he wasn't."

"You're not a good enough example of that yourself?" I'daur snaps after N'thei, his calm evaporating when the other bronzerider brings up Talien. The bluerider's name sets his mouth into a thin line, eyes narrowed, until Leova distracts him from scowling after N'thei. Turning back to her to relax, he eyes the green, then starts to shift toward his desk. "Bring her over here, let's see," he tells the weyrling. "And you--going to have some bruises? S'not your fault, anyway--they're pretty impetuous, 'motional, this age anyway."

The old man has a point. N'thei leaves without argument.

You stride into the bowl.