Difference between revisions of "Logs:(Un)Friendly Competition"

>---< Weyrling Classroom, Fort Weyr >----------------------------------------<

  This cavern could easily house up to sixty weyrlings at a time, with      
  desk-space provided in neat rows for academic lessons and classes taught  
  by both the weyrlingmasters themselves and the Weyr's posted Harpers.     
  Heavy tapestries line the walls, depicting wings of dragons fighting      
  Thread, perhaps to serve as a reminder of the ultimate task and skills    
  that must be passed down the generations. At the head of the room is a    
  sturdy desk for the instructor, beside which is a tall filing cabinet from
  which writing materials can be claimed and distributed. A chalkboard has  
  been hung against the wall in full view of the rows of desks before it. At
  the back of the room, there is also a sandtable and space for storing wax 
  tablets and important texts.                                              
                                                                            
  At first glance, it looks like a wooden screen has been set against the   
  wall in the last third of the room, but closer inspection reveals that    
  this heavy screen is set on small wheels and can be folded and drawn back 
  to reveal a hidden feature of the classroom.                              

 -----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
  Kh'tyr       M  33   5'9  solid, dk. brown hair, dk. brown eyes         0s 
  Olivya       F  31   5'8  firm, blonde hair, blue eyes                  1m

Despite the knot on Kh'tyr's riding jacket (the one haphazardly thrown onto a desk in the front row), the brownrider hasn't been seen in or around the weyrling barracks much. Certainly, there was a level of participation in cleaning it out after it was occupied by ill dragonriders and their lifemates, but not much since. However, this morning, his mellifluous bass may be heard for quite some distance out of the classroom. "Sight," he sounds the word with poignant emphasis. "Who can tell me what advantages there are through being able to share your dragon's perspective, for even brief times?" There's nothing but a lower murmur, "and wait for the blank looks and the eyes starting to glaze over for a five count-- ten if necessary, then call on the unsuspecting idiot nearly asleep in the third row--" His finger is lazily swirling as if choosing from his imaginary pupils. For all that he might look silly, Kh'tyr's oration skills (for anyone listening for more than just this moment) are fairly impressive, even if his attitude is... well. But practice makes perfect in either case, clearly.

Despite the lack of a knot, still, on her distinct jacket, Olivya has been seen in and around the weyrling barracks, the rumors of her ambitions to the Weyrlingmaster post already beginning to swirl. It might be the bright red that she wears even now on this warm summer morning that might catch an eye as she leans a shoulder against the entrance to the classroom, having followed the sound of the brownrider's voice and now simply listening to his lecture for the moment quietly without interrupting. Her boots are crossed, casual, and the blonde curls are wind-mussed. And elsewhere, Ivraeth naps in the morning sun, still content and self-satisfied from her first Fortian flight only days before.

"--or on the enemy," Kh'tyr abruptly points at Olivya where she stands, though he showed no sign of having taking note of her before that very moment. "Name an advantages of being able to share your dragon's perspective, Rider Olivya." This time as once before he pronounces her name with specific rhythm - O-liv-ya - giving each syllable equal emphasis. A single dark brow arches challenge in his otherwise impassive face.

"In drills, sir, they are better able to see peripherally, so that you would have a better understanding of the wing around you," Olivya answers with the hint of a half-smile, not straightening away from her lean but lifting her fingers in a careless salute that only ends with her pale gaze trailing over the brownrider in a way that would be very inappropriate for a true student/teacher. "Am I the enemy, Kh'tyr? Or was I supposed to play the unsuspecting idiot?"

Kh'tyr appears to consider Olivya's answer seriously, eyes narrowing a little as he looks at her. "Best out of three," he decides, and then gestures to allow her one of the seats, if she'd like. "Well, you are trying to steal my job, what would you call that? A friend?" The accusation is terse, his brows are lifted again and his chin tilts just enough to imply he's waiting for an explanation that will no doubt be unsatisfactory.

"They are better able to perceive in nighttime, making their sight invaluable after the sun has gone down," ticks Olivya off as the second, even as she pushes away from the doorframe to stride towards the front row of seats. But, she doesn't take a seat in one, of course. Instead, she sits on top, long legs stretched out before her with fingers caught on the desk's top. "I put my hat into the running for an opening. If that means we can be friends--." There's a drawl of suggestion there, her gaze meeting his boldly.

"I still haven't heard the answer I'm looking for," Kh'tyr can't possibly imagine that she won't get these answers right, so the only way to cheat is to have one in particular. He approaches the blonde, intending to come into her personal space, but certainly not touch her. "You transferred Weyrs because the one person who was supposed to give you your own shot had the ruddy bad luck to have a horny dragon at the wrong time. You saw your shot go with her, and so much's the pity for poor Kh'tyr who can't possibly compete with the new Weyrwoman's gal-pal." It's cheating. Dirty rotten cheating. He seems disgruntled accordingly.

Olivya's brow curves upwards, and she shifts oh-so-subtly as he enters her personal space. Her legs spread slightly, her back arches just that little bit to show off her best assets better, and her lips catch into a half-smile as she asks, "What answer do you want from me, Kh'tyr?" The question seems to serve a dual purpose for both threads of the conversation, at least for the moment.

"One great benefit to being able to share your lifemate's vision," the next pair of words is muttered in a way that suggests some other displeasure at work, "however briefly, is knowing when your enemies are in the vicinity." Kh'tyr leans just a little closer, until one practically has to cross eyes to see into the others'. "I thought we had something, Olivya," no, he didn't, but he feigns wounded with the best of them. "I thought we were going to be allies, and then you stab me in the back? You don't even have the decency to visit me and apologize for it. Where are the flowers? Where are the sweets? Where are the serenades on my ledge?" He leans back, turning to stalk back toward the slate, plucking up a piece of chalk and writes the answer: 'Nowhere!' It's underlined three times, in case she didn't get the point.

"I am not going to apologize for wrongs that you believe I have committed," Olivya answers carelessly, as if that should have already been self evident. "As for whether we are enemies or allies-- I suppose that depends on who gets the job, doesn't it?" She shifts again, this time her legs crossing so properly as she straightens, for all that she remains sitting on top of the student's desk as Kh'tyr writes on the chalkboard, as if she's truly paying attention to that scribbled word. "I still want you on my team, darling. There's no one I'd want more."

"Ha!" Kh'tyr doesn't believe that for a hot second. Turning, he looks back at her with a grossly skeptical expression. "Let's roleplay, Olivya," an effective and legitimate teaching tool. "You be me and I'll be you. What would you want me to say to you?"

"Liv," she begins with drawling out the word with an affection that is supposed to mimic Kh'tyr, one supposes. "Liv, it doesn't matter which of us gets the job. I understand why you put yourself into the running, to guarantee that one of us would get it." Her brow quirks upwards, a hint of humor there that already foresees more skepticism. "But, as long as one of us gets it, we're a team. We have the same goal."

"No, the other you. What would real you want you as me to say to you? I'm guessing it's not, 'I'm a venomous tunnelsnake who lives to bite the unsuspecting.'" Kh'tyr must really have meant the other way 'round, or he's just not happy with her answer to this either.

"Liv, darling-- hot tits," is not really his affectation, but Olivya finds some humor in it that seems to root back to his own snipes. "We had our bit of fun, now we're in competition. That doesn't mean the fun has to stop, even if I've no way to compete with the Weyrwoman's gal-pal and clearly the better weyrlingmaster." A pause, before she adds with a tip to Kh'tyr, giving him the compliment of, "That doesn't mean I am just going to give up. But a competition is just a competition."

"Wherryshit," he calls it as soon as she claims superiority. That is one point Kh'tyr will never concede. "Being Mirinda's lapdog does not boost your job qualifications." He's advancing on her again, hands going to his hips, so at least it doesn't seem like things are about to turn violent. "If there's any qualification you outdo me in it will be boot-licking because I don't. This competition," the word is sneered, "should be about what's best for the weyrlings, but your coming here has made it automatically a consideration of personal ties, of who can get on with the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader the best. Your Mirinda didn't even give me a fair chance. She ambushed me while I was having cake." It's outrageous.

"Isn't it? At least slightly about who can work best with our Weyrleadership while maintaining our goals, Kh'tyr?" counters Olivya. She likely isn't worried about violence, but still she moves to her feet gracefully as he closes the distance between them, so that she can be of a height with the brownrider. "I'm not sitting here complaining about life's unfairness or boot-licking or making this personal. I have made a plan for the program, drawn up lessons, outlined my vision. If the Weyrleaders see merit in that, then it isn't because of my personal ties."

"Any imbecile can work with the Weyrleadership if they're head doesn't reside permanently up their backside. But there is zero chance that your Mirinda would prefer working with me to you. You're her clutchmate, her piece of home, her loyal friend who came along for this crazy ride." Kh'tyr doesn't move away from her, apparently wholly unbothered by their proximity. "You've had turns to persuade her of your competency and rightness for this position. I've been neighbors with N'rov for not even two turns and how the shell was I supposed to know that he was going to be Weyrleader." Asshole dragons not making plans people can live their lives by. "You think you're the only one who's been asked to make plans? To draw up lessons and express their vision for consideration?" His brows arch: how stupid is she, really. "I knew you were blonde..." But. He gave her more credit.

"Then stop whining and prove yourself, Kh'tyr," suggests Olivya in a drawl, and despite the tension between them (or maybe because of it) she reaches out to hook fingers against his belt to draw him closer still. "I didn't come along just for this. If they choose you, if you are the next Weyrlingmaster--." A pause, her gaze sliding down and then back up under the fan of dark blonde lashes. "Well, I will be just as happy to... work under you as I hope you would be to work under me."

"Done." He's already done. Kh'tyr gives her a hard look; that blonde thing... As if he wouldn't already be completely prepared. "Do you taste wherryshit when you say things like that?" He wonders aloud. "I wouldn't work under you if you were the last weyrlingmaster on Pern." Pern would have bigger problems if it came to that, sure. He says it resolutely though. "A cheat, and not even one honorable enough to call the damned fowl a fowl." Foul. One or the other. "Now, if you'll go occupy someone else's time, mine is too valuable to waste." He steps back just enough to make his little shooing gesture effective.

Disappointment is not entirely feigned but shown for Kh'tyr's benefit, mingled with amusement as Olivya only leans closer to murmur, "Too bad. You can be such a delightful waste of time." But he's taken his stance, and she takes hers by stepping back and away. "If you need me, I'll be in the office." (At least she doesn't say my.) She starts to walk away, pausing as if she remembered something just as she gets to the doorway and turning to say over her shoulder, "And don't finish too early, darling; take your time. You don't want to be premature."