Difference between revisions of "Logs:Responsible Adults"

Stables, High Reaches Weyr

Taking advantage of a natural overhang in the side of the mountain for its roof, this building boasts sturdy stone construction braced by beams of tough-as-nails skybroom. Just inside a pair of broad doors, the ceiling rises a full two stories high for the full length and half the width of the building. Beneath the overhang, wide windows admit light and more fresh air, while opposite is the second-story hayloft.

The stables' main focus, however, is the double rows of stalls that line the walls below: one large stall serving as tack room, the rest housing a remarkable variety of beasts. (+views)

View: Stables, High Reaches Weyr's HAYLOFT

A pulley system, set up next to a ladder, allows bales to be hauled up to the hayloft. Wisps of hay occasionally drift down into the main room.

Crack of a new day at High Reaches-- crack of lightning, its splice of shine gleaming off freshly fallen snow capping the Weyr's bowl, and everywhere else, too. Herders across the Weyr were up en masse even earlier, bringing the beasts in when lightning was predicted and soothing their panic, and now, as the crafters break, the lower caverns has offered to check on extra feed. Lower caverns being Mave, who enters aside a yawn, arms stretched high above her head before dropping to hug herself as she sidles into the stables. Cold has dressed her up in layers, including the knit hat, while humidity electrifies her hair like she'd been hit outside by one of those strikes. Sliding in, to the clomp and thud of many restless hooves, she heads for the ladder to the second story, scoping out animals and tools.

Lightning is a natural fear. But even for runners, sometimes natural fear needs to be trained out. There are no need for war horses on Pern, but having at least a handful that don't shy in the face of poor weather or dragon maw is important. That's why, on days like this, the beastcraft welcomes select experienced riders to take some of their runners out to face the elements, if only for a while. It's Wakizian's rest day, so he's one of the ones who's shown up to take on this particular challenge. He's dressed in his full runner riding get up (you know, the kind that separates enthusiasts from serious riders). But unfortunately, the BeastCraft Journeymen organizing the lightning ride is insistent, "I'm sorry, Wakizian. You know we'd normally take you, but we're going out of the Weyr and with the hatching drawing nearer-- there'd be no way to get you back." Disappointed, but apparently understanding, the candidate turns away from the crafter after a few more words and wishes for luck. Now he's in search of something else to do, and his wandering feet have him following the action to the ladder to the second story, arriving at its base without paying much heed to who else might be looking to use it, a hand reaching out to grab it's edge.

Having anticipated the training session, Mave expects little to no resistance when it comes to free reign of the stables, lending to her wandering eye, picking out each of the animals present with familiarity. A second birth of a yawn is plugged by the back of her hand, just before it extends towards the ladder's first rung. Maybe she didn't hear the clomp of serious boots, or maybe she thought it a late rider heading out to join the others -- a ring of thunder clouding the closing in sound. Fingers arrive simultaneously-- knuckles bumping, veering her lightly off-course so that she clamps her hand a second later, on the ladder, amidst someone else's. It's too early in the morning to be startled, and Mave's chin shudders backwards with the snort she honks out, not altogether separated from one of the runners in a nearby stall. Her chin flies to her side, staring along her shoulder at-- oh. Brown eyes widen, then incrementally narrow, flickering suspiciously off to the right. A soft clearing of her throat, fingers winding nervously where they've landed, ignoring entanglements. "Sorry."

Wakizian's surprised expression at encountering a second person ladder-bound turns immediately to quiet amusement as soon as it registers just whom the other person is. His free hand moves instinctively to touch the back of her hip. It's not meant to be invasive, but steadying, lest the almost-knocking into one another take them both down. It lingers only long enough for the Smith to assure himself that she's not about to fall back the few inches that separate their bodies. "Well." His baritone is soft, bemused. "Hello Mave." The placement of the stress in his greeting is unusual, as is the pitch, instead placing the stress on her name, as he might if he were angry with her, or purely on the hello as one might in normal conversation, both words are stressed equally and his pitch speaks to pleasant surprise. Is it a trap? He doesn't move, staying just exactly where he is, not moving the fingers that are tangled in with hers, gripping the ladder. Either he's not going to move out of stubborn boy-headedness or he doesn't want to for another reason. The bruise on his face is a few days faded, now the yellow-greens of partially healed, rather than the dark blue/red/purples of freshly earned.

Her smaller hand engulfed within his on the first rung of the ladder she needs, his geared-up stature looming across the retreat away from the ladder: it feels like a trap to Mave. A rod of tension slides up her back, though she softly quips, "I haven't got anything back there." In reference to a flat, empty, back pocket, though it rings as clearly over the girlishly lacking curves he's ample view of from his loom-y stance. Awareness trickles in, leading Mave to twist, as much as the shoulder of her pinned hand can, to face him head on. "I said sorry," a declaration not meant to accuse him of being hard of hearing, but a reminder to her own self. With it, she plows on, "For." Stops short; her eyes paint a clear enough picture across the bruise of his brow, her own wincing sympathetically like she'd been the one hurt. Or she was about to be. "I shouldn't have." Again, a full-stop, obliging Wakizian to fill in all blanks. "Or." All blanks ever. A swallow and she's rolling her eyes, staring sullenly off into the stables at runners whose clomping feet seem to echo her.

"Yeah, I know." Waki's tone is still light and amused. This response might be to the lack of curvature to her backside, or it might be to the fact that she said she's sorry, or both. "But you wouldn't be you if things were any other way." This doesn't help clarify matters. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. I mean, you have a nemesis for turns, and all of a sudden they turn out to be nice? What kind of fun is that?" Evidently, Nicky knows his friend and there was truth when he said just give him time. He'll get over it. He doesn't seem annoyed, or angry - in face, he just seems ready to laugh about it. "You always have had amazing aim. Maybe you just don't like how my face looks, though." He still hasn't moved. His hand isn't keeping her trapped there on purpose - it's just a light pressure as he grips the rail with her hand in between, she could slip out if she really wanted - and probably without splinters! "I wasn't being an ass, you know. Or wasn't trying to be, anyway." Beat. "But I'm sorry if I was."

Mave's mouth screws up in a frozen and unflattering flinch at the prospect of her as her. But a glimmer of a smile traces underneath, bashful but hopeful -- nevermind that her eyes are confused and narrow. She's a little heaping of just about everything, packaged into that scrawny figure that shifts gently against the ladder, elbow lifting then falling. Her fingers are there. "It's not fun," admitted, more soberly than he jests it, but quickly dropped. Her unoccupied hand lifts from where it'd been working into her shirt bottom, palm encompassing the air in front of his face, circling generally. "Yeah, it is kind of--" another blank; this one touts slightly more humor. He's stringing her along fine, letting her inch into a vague wry humor bit by bit, and line by line. Hearing him apologize is what finally has her eyes relaxing, closing a second, then opening to the soft, rolled press of her lips hiding poorly her hint of pleasure. "It's just," her hand flops, hitting her thigh; the other begins to loosen, sliding halfway out from under him as her posture eases, "It seemed like you were doing an underhand insult thing to Alida and I wanted to tell you to be more careful. What if someone whose opinion you were trying to win had been there? They'd worry about the way you talk."

"Wellll," The candidate draws the word out while he lifts his hand off of hers on the ladder, making it easier for her to move it, unencumbered. "It doesn't have to be fun. It could be-- mature, instead. Nemeses are for kids anyway." Has anyone told that to the riders and residents of High Reaches? Or to the Holders for that matter? If not, maybe someone should. "I'm sorry about saying that thing about not having girl friends. I was-- hurt. And being hurt makes me say stupid things. Shells, being me makes me say stupid things. But especially when I'm hurt." Those words come tumbling out, starting slow and becoming more rapid, eventually he hushes, a blush touching his cheeks, which makes the bruise look-- strange? But kind of pretty in a yellow-on-pink kind of way. "I wasn't trying to insult Alida." He pauses to consider his own words, "Well, maybe I was. She made a joke using Nicky's stutter, when he wasn't there." It's easy to tell from the restrained anger in his voice how very poorly that action sat with Wakizian. "But that's why I need lessons about talking to girls." He points up the ladder, "Want to go find a quiet place and you can educate me a little? Seems I have some time." Since he won't be making use of his fancy riding clothes.

With both her hands, Mave laces them in front of her, lending a prim air to the nod she accepts his apology with; if you ignore that she's staring vaguely off-base of his eyes, it's almost like they're just fine. Jokes versus Nicky incite her, lip riling, lifting her cheek. Not all that intimidating, but her flash of disgust is well readable before she cools it with a puffed out breath that flounces the hair falling beside her face, out of the hat. Lessons brings an odd flush to her cheeks, minutely widening her eyes before she purposefully clears them. Hints of surprise help, loosening both her gaze and her jaw, as she flusters a second, mouth working, before asking bluntly, "You still want me to-- do that?" Turning to look up and over her shoulder at the second story loft, her mouth firms, and she looks back down. "I'm here for work. Can you wait up there for me for five minutes?" Her third yawn captures her there, lifting her hand, fisted, against her mouth to hide him from the unsightly image of her throat as she heavily indulges the morning hour.

There's a subtle nod of agreement to the look she takes on with the joke about Nicky, approval touching the candidate's face. They can be allies in that, at least. "Sure. I'll meet you up there." Wakizian steps around her and starts up the ladder, calling down: "I'm assuming Nicky gave you back my lists like I asked him to, so I've earned one." A lesson, that is. Once up the ladder, he makes his way to the back of the hay loft where there's a little slope between hay and wall and settles into it, back leaning against the wall. Perfect for an embarrassing talking to girls lesson - cushy, though maybe a little tight-quartered.

Mave steps of from the ladder, murmuring, "Yeah... Nicky gave me something...". A few seconds later, she joins him above -- not permanently; there's hay there to be shoveled down, and then she's scampering after it, and the sounds of footsteps and scraping heralds the girl's hearty work ethic. Runners are calmed and soothed idly down the line for each delivery, as thunder rumbles on distantly, less oppressively over the Weyr's major areas, at least for now. Halfway through, alertness of Wakizian waiting has faded into focus on work, her attention not easily funneled into offshoots, so the humming and then spring of a thoughtlessly singing voice filter up to him. Gentler lyrics than some of her usual reach out to the stalled beasts, yet on subjects not purely innocent. Girls, and booze, and the temptation of the water. It dips in and out, sometimes the shoveling overtaking her notes, until, it's gone. Scraping, and then the shaking of the ladder. Mave appears, hatted head first peeking over, sorting out where he is, before she hefts herself up and onto the loft. "Hey."

Though she wasn't gone too long, it looks like Wakizian had started to doze while she worked. It's not too surprising given how busy the crafter-candidates have been. There's a dreamy, unguarded smile on his face when she first appears. "I like you voice." This comes out in a half-asleep tone before his eyes flutter open and blink. He shifts and then stretches. "Hey. So- what's the first thing I need to know about talking to girls?" His smile to her is warm - not a look she's likely to have seen before.

"Uhhh...." Sure to impress a ton of faith in his professor. Mave's eyes roll up as she thinks, then down to remember where she was-- what she must've been doing. "Right." Moving on. Throwing herself a little further up, she seats, curling one leg to cross with the other, facing his wall. "Compliments... are a nice start." Drifting, thoughtful, and low, as she gathers her thoughts, with her hands plucking at random bits of hay in front of her, drawing them into an unintended pile towards her knees. A more decisive nod lifts her gaze. "I guess... the first thing you should know about girls is that we're not a foreign animal." Scuffles from the runners below them create humorous, timely punctuation. "And we like different things. So, if you're not sure if what you want to say is actually a compliment then... maybe? Don't say it?" For a teacher, her hesitance is damning, but, lips kneading, she's putting in effort to be sincere. "Unless it's to someone you know will understand if you mess up."

Wakizian stretches his arms again and then uses the wall to push himself up into a standing position, shedding his fur-lined jacket as the hay pile provides enough insulation to make the loft fairly cozy. He drops the jacket where he was sitting, and steps over towards the sloped pile where she sits, and he clambers up. "So if I were talking to you as just a girl, instead of my teacher, I might say that you're pretty." He settles beside her, "But I wouldn't say something like I like your aim, because you mightn't take it right." The unevenness of the hay causes some discomfort and he shifts to get more comfortable, but a misplaced hand has him slipping, the slope causing him to slide the few inches, his torso twisted toward her, one hand catching him behind her, putting them abruptly close together. He breathes out slowly, not moving away, and instead murmuring, "But I might be able to say that I like it when you teach me lessons, even when they end up hurting. And you might understand." His warm brown eyes seek hers, and there's a tension in his body that's both nervousness and excitement at being this close to a real live girl.

"Pretty's... pretty basic," while Mave's wincing openly at her own lackluster wording, distraction comes in the way of Wakizian settling and then unsettling closer. Shoulders drive up protectively towards her ears. With the round top of her knit hat, she's an odd shape. Hefting shoulders even higher to shrug, she quips wryly, face twisted into this over-exaggerated nature, "Oh, I don't know... I've been known to be pretty crazy sensitive." Joke-- but with a flash of dismal uncertainty not caught by her. Instead, almond eyes stare neutrally back at him. Her hand slides carefully to her side, opposite him, and she scoots, with its support, a few precious inches away. A practical kind of retreat, in the end, without hesitance or revilement showing on her face like his closeness somehow offended her. Now she just has room to bounce her knees, reaching up a hand to relieve her hair of the hat in the loft's new warmth. Shaking it out, hand within the curls, there's little she can do for what humidity in the air's already done. "But you're right. The best compliment comes from hanging out with someone a bit, so you know what they like and what they're proud of or nervous about. That compliment will prove to a girl that you're paying attention, which is neat." Tilting her head to the side, she eyes him sideways: pointedly.

Wakizian's expression becomes confused as she scoots away, and instead of staying where he was, he slides back down the slope and stands, moving back to his original corner, arms folding across his chest as he leans his back to the wall. His face has turned stony, his brown eyes going to the ceiling. Talk about crazy-sensitive! "So obviously I need to work on compliment delivery. Since none of the ones I just tried to give you were right." He sighs. "Maybe I should've gone for something more like how smart you have to be to handle all those numbers for the bets. Or that I admire your work ethic. Or that you look cute in that hat." Beat. "Or maybe I'm just getting this all wrong. I heard you kissed a candidate." He's frowning now. Definitely frowning.

That hat sitting limply in her uncertain hands, halfway to her lap, while her open jaw gapes at his abrupt attitude. Boys! Isn't she supposed to be the moody one? Mave lowers her hand warily onto her knee. "I... thought you were-- giving examples," she expresses low, slow, afraid of igniting some furious beast that'll jump down her tense throat. He's still talking, anyway, so she waits that beat to hear it out; she blushes a note, then curses her fair skin when she can feel it heating her cheeks. So inappropriate in the classroom. Everything worsens at the faint accusation, and she rolls her eyes forward, off of her blank study of him, with a soft noise before teeth capture lip. Fff, and then she's rocking her head back towards him blandly. "I heard you were beat up by one." Trading straightforward rumor for another. What is this? "What are we doing right now?"

She's not the only one who's got hot cheek problems. Wakizian's are rosy despite his impassive expression. The impassiveness gives way when he sighs, "Nothing. We're not doing anything." Pause, "Mave, I asked you for lessons as a-- a pretense. I'm always going to taste foot when I talk to girls. No amount of lessons is going to help that. I just-- wanted to spend some time with you." His arms drop to his sides, "It's probably better that we're not doing anything. I'd probably get beat up by Bones." He shakes his head, "Are you saying that I shouldn't believe everything I hear? Since we both know that this-" He points to the bruise on his face, "-was not caused by a candidate's fist?"

Too many veins of thought confuse Mave, leaving her face a wrecked mess of attempting to calculate each of them. His betting compliment may have been less on-point than he believed. "Well-- " she attempts to jam practically between his words. It slips off; she waits, with a light impatient noise, half for herself. Clear not getting it squints one side of her face, tilting her head at him at mention of Bones, then she lets it go with another harder breath out her nose. The heel of her hand rubs up and against her temple then falls. "If we're gonna be spending time anyway, then... why not lessons during that time?" Like, she honestly, curiously, wants to know. It makes logistical, factual, numbers sense in her head. "And, no," her far hand twists onto her side, above her hip, the other lying across her knee closest him. "I thought we were playing the 'state things we heard' game," slight sarcasm, mostly exasperation pushing him to listen to how absurd it sounds. "If you have a question, then just ask it, and do so politely."

Wakizian can't help but be amused, though it's mildly. "Because I don't want lessons, Mave. I don't mind making an ass of myself in front of girls. I don't mind sorting things out as I go along." He pauses, "And because I don't think we'll be spending time together like that. You don't like me, that way, you wouldn't've -- moved, over there," He flicks his fingers from where they were sitting to the few inches away that she moved, "-if you did." He sounds fairly convinced. "So we'll just-- you know, see each other when we see each other. Have drinks from time to time, or I can help you with your betting odds. I'm good with numbers, or whatever. But just whenever." Apparently, he's not the type who loves the chase. "And when I make an ass of myself in front of you, after declining your lessons, you can feel free to throw bags of feed at me. Let's just try to coordinate it next time. You know, avoid the face."

She might throw something right now. Intention painted by the high push of her lower lip. With a hard nnh of frustration, Mave chooses words. "Wakizian! I was moving to give you room." You asshat, goes unspoken but through tone. "Because you slipped. Because I am a nice, regular person." As negogliable as 'nice' may be, allowed through the wince she suffers saying it. Yanking her leg out from under her, she braces the foot of the other, rising her inconsequential height for a foot or so more's leverage to her insistence. "I would really like help with odds, that would be awesome," said with an air of pushiness; it's just a prelude to her point, emphasized by a few steps towards him, "What I don't like is that you either seem to think I'm really cool or really the worst, and it switches every five seconds before I can even figure out I did anything." Hands windmill in the air expressively. She's forgotten her hat in the hay. Her hair's gone wild. But she's not shouting -- not accusing, except gently, throughout her earnest. "It makes it, honestly, impossible to know what I feel about you except-- " and what comes out of her mouth is a bunch of exaggerated gibberish, timed with her hands wiggling by her shoulders. "So, yes. Please. Can we draw some kind of line?"

Wakizian's eyes track Mave as she gets up and then marches up to him. He listens, gaze sweeps over her face, again and again. Just after she admits not knowing what she feels about him, he closes his eyes for a half-second, and his lips tighten. It's the look of one steeling themselves for potential disaster. But no risk taken, no reward gained! This decision to cross as yet unidentified lines is made just as she's asking for them to define some. Both hands come up to slip into the space between her up-thrown hands and her head, fingers lightly cupping her face on either side, as he dips his head to press a kiss to her lips. It's not tentative - it's a carpe diem kiss! Go for broke! But it's also not invasive, and he releases a moment later, leaning back a few inches, hands dropping quickly back to his sides and he waits. He probably figures she'll either kiss him again or slap him. But maybe there's something behind door number three?

Door number three opens: Mave stands there like a dumb, suffocating fish, a release from the shocked scrunch-up he caught her face in while grabbing-- kissing her. Eyes float from him to the wall, to him, to the ceiling. She looks vaguely like she's trying to recall if there's a new menu item on the living cavern wall she's forgotten. Perhaps: fuck with Mave. It could be a candidate chore. That would explain why she hasn't seen it. Awareness of the present floats down over her as she closes her mouth slowly, sniffs, then coughs, halfway into clearing her throat. "Wh-- yyyy," drifts out of her, a whine; not directed at Wakizian, instead, the wall next to his knees. "What is happening..." Hands float up to her forehead, two forefingers bracing either side of her temple right above the eyebrows. "I don't have any boobs-- my hair is-- well, pretty awesome, but... like-- " and her hands jut out, throttling the air in front of her-- but Wakizian is in front of her, and they freeze when her eyes catch on him, then stay, lost.

Wakizian stays just where he ended the kiss as just what is behind door number three is revealed. Speechless is good, right? His brow furrows as she finds speech. Maybe it's bad. Concern starts to twist his features, puckering his lips a little. He straightens up and watches her. Once she's said her piece, he begins softly, "You said that you didn't know how you felt about me. That it was confusing. And it's been confusing me too. So I thought..." He searches his thoughts, as though the ones that incited his actions have gone rogue. "I thought that maybe if we kissed, we might know." He frowns. Apparently, kisses aren't as magically clarifying as the Harper Tales claim. "Sorry. I guess I shouldn't have?" He asking, not stating. "For the record, I never ever, not even once, thought you were the worst. You're the one that thought I thought that. I've never thought it." Maybe he would for once if some of the details of the rumor he heard were clearer. Like which candidate. "I stayed away from you after you punched me because that's what Healer Madilla told me I should do." Sound advice for a 12 turn old. "What's not to like about you? You are really cool. I've always thought so. And the other day..." He sighs, "Well, have you ever gotten hurt badly and been angry at the person who did it even though it was an accident? This-" He uses a whole hand to indicate the bruise, "-really hurt." The bruise confirms at least that part of his story.

"No, it's just..." Mave's protest begins before her mind's quite found the words, ending her lamely with, "It's not just you..." lingering in that soft whine. Does she mean herself, or the other candidate. Record setting straight lowers her eyes off of him, bringing a hand to brace the other's bicep, squeezing nervously. "I know that now," she sighs, not trying to argue, but murmuring explanation, "But it's hard to turn around four or five turns of thinking in a couple'a sevens." All of the talking, and bruise-pointing, throw an antsy wiggle down her and, without thinking, she surges forward, fingers prancing in the air next to his cheek. On her toes to scale his height, she's a funny little bobbing creature up near his shoulder. A hand eventually gets in towards the yellowish coloring, "I said I was sorry, right..." She inquires guiltily around a wince, breathing nervous warm air on him. "Cool, sure. But likable?" She laughs, that too breezing onto his cheek that her eyes are so studious on, "Wakizian, you of all people know I haven't a useful skill in my whole tiny body." Realizing she's basically ogling his face, she starts to drop onto her heels, shrugging, "Why do you think I wanted girl lessons to go so well so badly?"

Wakizian leans down a bit after she bounces enough times to for what she's getting a better look at occurs to him. His eyelids flutter extra in mini-winces as her hand hovers in the air next to the injury. He doesn't miss a thing of what she says, but he chooses only certain parts to respond to. "I guess that's the difference. It's not a turn around for me. But-- that's fine." He bites his lower lip gently. "We'll just-- be friends then. And maybe someday, if you want, we'll go on a date, or kiss again," Pause, "Or both." He's flexible! There's some thought niggling in the back of his mind, but he shoves it aside. "No pressure. Okay?" Then he snorts, rolling his eyes. "Mave, you're charming. Not in a girly-girl kind of way, but in a tough, 'takes no shit from anyone' kind of way. And I never knew why you didn't apprentice to Harper, 'cause you're good at singing." Better than he is, at any rate. And he might be a little biased having listened to her hum for the last five-seven-nine turns or so. "You'd probably make a great Headwoman someday. If you wanted to do that much work." His nose wrinkles a little at the idea, "And to deal with all those people and politics. And wanting the girl lessons to go well-- well, that just means I'm a doubly bad choice as a student. I'd be setting you up for failure 'cause I like being just how I am." Then an idea occurs to him, "You know, Nicky might like to be your student though. He was asking me the night you gave me my new look about a gift for Hana to get her to go with him to the Hatching Feast, or to like him best out of her choices or something. I didn't really know what to suggest to him. But it sounds like he might want some help in the lady-department." This suggestion is made with eagerness, trying genuinely to help her out.

No pressure? Then don't compliment the girl, because Mave lights up like she's due to boil and burst when her singing's come to light. Stuttered, snorted, half-protesting words fit in-between his continuous evaluation of her person till she's run out of steam and is just breathing a long string of embarrassed noise out of her nose and waiting. Instead of make light of his jest about being a poor student, the indication that the lessons are doomed deflates her, shoulders losing a touch of buoyancy as her eyes drift off an angle. They flick back, half-narrowed by her head's turn, on his revelation. "Well," a little huff of uncertainty, expelling a last bit of impatience. Her hand reaches into her frizzled hair, "Nicky did ask about it. And, frankly, I expected him to have told you already. You two do sleep on each other's chests, right?" Her raised eyebrows and slightly lifted lower lip make it an innocently curious inquiry -- but her tone is nothing but faux-casualness designed to tease. "But I probably shouldn't tell you what he asked, cause that feels like... teacher... student confidentiality or something." Maybe if she'd taken that Harper route, that would sound more impressive. All she has now is furrowed brows and a stinging desperation to get it right.

If she didn't want to hear his rebuttal full of compliments, she shouldn't have complained! Do-gooders always do -- well, good. Or try to. And Waki is one of those... generally. He looks confused by her comment about where he sleeps, brows furrowing, "No. We don't. If we did, I suspect he wouldn't be asking for help with girls." He gives Mave a meaningful look. "Nor would I. And I definitely wouldn't have been kissing you to see how we felt about each other." Which didn't work out anyway, and his face shows his continued puzzlement on that topic. "I actually haven't seen Nicky in more than passing since the night of this," Again the eye is indicated. It seems easier to point than explain in words. "Guess we just haven't been in the same place at the same time. So much to do." Rumors say that Wakizian's work ethic (while high before) has doubled in the past sevenday, prompted by some kind of new motivation. It couldn't be that his bro is avoiding bromantic entanglements at the moment, could it? "By the way, can I bet on myself? Or is that off limits? I don't know the rules. I've never made a real bet before." Then once more to the topic of Nicky, "I'm not surprised he came to you though. I'd imagine he'll tell me about it next time we see each other for more than a few seconds." They do tell each other everything, after all! He certainly doesn't seem like he's going to ask her to break Nicky's confidence, or overly concerned about the lesson. After all, Nicky would never brotray him and go after a girl he liked, right? Not Nicky!

"Joooooke..." Mave slips quietly in under his factual disagreements about where and how he sleeps -- or doesn't -- with Nicky. It doesn't seem worth to linger on, so she doesn't, instead her face forms a displeased investment over the fellows' lack of communication. The sudden transition to betting jolts her out of it, into a brief confusion, then a deeper one. "Uhh... I guess I... don't see why not? I mean it's... y' know. Your money." Using her best attempt to sound impartial, not at all laying judgment on anyone's odds just then. "You know," a little giggle, breathy in its incompleteness, "I knew you were of age, but it's still funny to think of you as a candidate. Faranth," she shakes her head, "As 'brats, we mocked them so bad. Tiny little, nervous, twitchy, unknowing things." Fingers wriggling like insects ready to pounce, she pauses a beat then eyes him. Target that he is now.

Wakizian smirks at her response, "I should hope so." But there's been too much talk of the possibility of otherwise lately for him not to have responded seriously. "Then again, it'd probably be a big compliment to you if you could get a gay guy to kiss you." His smirk becomes a cheeky grin. "Too bad you'll have to settle for just one confused candidate." He laughs a little, "Yeah. I never really thought I was going to be one. Especially since I haven't been, and I've been eligible a while." He shrugs his shoulders, "It's not bad, really. I think I'll come out alright on hatching day. Nicky thinks we should get Alida to stand near us 'cause she'll be good at spotting any wayward hatchlings with blood on their brains." Not that baby dragons try to hurt people, but to joke such is easier than to face the reality of the possibilities in his near future. "I just hope no one dies on the sands this time." Not that it's happened in a while. The laugh that follows is a nervous one. He quickly changes the topic back to betting, "What's the maximum bid? And I can bet just Impresses or doesn't Impress, right? There's a separate pool for what color? I'd imagine the odds are steeper there, but--" He shrugs, apparently he either wants to bet against himself or not get so specific.

"It has been suggested lately that I spend my time with more of them." Murmured as a humorous aside, it's also somewhat dismissive; Mave's focused in on something else, making her absent and avoiding as she sighs and addendums matter-of-factly, "Two." No more push than that, she listens attentively enough to the rest of his, mouth spoiling at the closeness of Nicky and Alida's names, as to jokes about Hatching deaths. "You sure she wouldn't just push you at one?" Questioned pointedly, eying a shiner that may not be the guard-candidate's fault, but it's related. "I apologized to her, actually. Or, at least," Mave's hands shake out at her sides nervously, "I tried. I think." It's all absent, stalling as her concentrated face clearly tries to work out the answer to his more involved questions. "I guess I didn't... set a maximum." Shoot. Damn. "Umm. But, yeah. Tables are separate for Impressing, better pay-outs but harder odds for Impressing plus colors. Then another separate for colors in clutch total. Clutches."

"Two? So the rumor is true then." Wakizian's words are quiet, "Why didn't you just say so when I asked about it?" Not that he manned up and actually asked when she gave him the chance, but he referenced it, so the definition of asked is very loose here. "As for Alida," He purses his lips, "I doubt she'd do something that drastic, unless she could make it look like an accident. She's pretty aware of consequences, I think. And believe or not, I think that she might actually be nicer now than at Turnover." Not by much, but some! "How did she take the apology?" Then he raises a brow, "No cap? Hm. You might consider that for next clutch. You wouldn't want to end up owing some of the worse kind of folks that might bet big. I think the Bitrans call it hedging your bets. The house-" He nods to Mave to acknowledge her position as such, "- should always win."

"If I can survive this one," said, gnawing on a strand of hair she's pulled in-between her lips. Mave offered but a shrug to define Alida's reaction -- or lack thereof, considering, and arrows in now with what would be a level gaze if she didn't have to stretch to look at him. "Because, by the way, you didn't ask," a finger up makes her point, "You just passive-aggressively referred to it as if it were already your business." See the difference? queries the lift of her eyebrows pointedly at him. Sidling a step backwards, she scratches at her thigh. "Anyway, weren't you raised here?" She knows he was, so, obviously rhetorical. "People kiss people all the time. Just because we're teenagers and clumsy at it doesn't mean we shouldn't. Actually, it means we should, because how do you think all the people who are good at it now got good? In fact," chin raising in challenge, eyes alight, "I might actually like it."

Wakizian tilts his head to one side and leans down and in coming close enough that he's just shy of making his two eyes seem like one from her perspective, "So you want your kissing candidates to be none of my business?" That's what he takes away from her comment that he didn't ask, not the responsibility of asking more directly. "People do kiss all the time. Sometimes it means something, and sometimes it doesn't. Just be careful. Sometimes the kisses that don't mean anything can hurt the ones that do." He rocks back on his heels, straightening up again. Mave's eyes cross uncomfortably, blinking when he backs off, her mouth taking its turn to curl. Indecision blasts across her face, clearing it of all else, and paving the way for her practical sensibility. She waits, several long, impatient seconds to be as fair as possible. Then, inhaling shortly, "Sometimes. I don't think you listen to anything that I say." And wasn't it, in her brief tenure as a professor, one of her lessons that mentioned paying attention.

"Oh, I heard you." Wakizian insists, baritone still soft. "And given that you're kissing candidates sevendays to few months-" Since the auguries on such subjects are still a little vague, "-before the dragons shell for the clutch they're standing for, "Probably the kissing you're doing now means nothing. But it might mean something if those candidates weren't to Impress and have two turns of hard learning and labor ahead of them with baby dragons at their sides." Beat. "But don't think I didn't hear you say you might like me-" And other candidates! "-kissing you." His smile turns impish. "Let me know if you make up your mind on that. Or if you need a second try to help you decide." Shells, he's already kissed her once, and if he might have to get a shiner for that, he might as well get as much out of the experience as he can, right?

Fine. He wants to have a boy filter when he listens, thus does Mave employ her feminine one with gusto. Alongside his chattering, brown eyebrows dip to greater and deeper depths, till her nose is a positive array of wrinkles that she, coolly, smooths out as he makes his play. "Oh." Sweet, practical. "So I mean nothing now, do I?" Her chin bobs forward challengingly, little musical sway to it, "Huh?" Yet, her freckled cheeks, her high voice: easily, she's less bitter, not snappy, as she is nearly playful in her taunt. Arms cross deliberately over her problematic chest. "Kissing me meant right now meant nothing?" Just checking facts, her tone loftily suggests. "Well, maybe then I do need a second try. Or a third, or a-- " A finger presses down over her lips, so contested, "Hmm." Eyes drift thoughtfully. "How many candidates were there again?"

"I never said you meant nothing." Wakizian protests, "I said that you were kissing men-- was it a man?" His interest in the rumor has kindled anew at the prospect, "Men who might be dragonmen all too soon and not able to give a relationship the time and attention those kinds of things need. Or so I'm told. So kissing is just kissing with candidate unless they don't Impress." Apparently, this candidate is too dense to recognize the tease. "If you want to kiss all the candidates, go ahead. Alida probably bites though." In this, at least, he managed to pick up on the joke, or what he probably sincerely hopes is a joke, and returns it with humor in kind. "But I can't help you with them. I can only help you if you wanted to kiss me again."

"Whoa, that's right! Kissing is just kissing. Imagine that." A note of exasperation clings to her, Mave rubbing at one eye with the side of her hand. Since staring pointedly blankly at him throughout didn't clue him into the joke, she may be giving up. "And why do I have to be the responsible one, anyway? Maybe these men," important emphasis, "need to be the ones to worry about throwing kisses around when they could become riders in a month. Or other... worrying things." Huffing ends up coming out almost sad. She drags her foot around, twisting to face the ladder they came up on. But, nearing, she only sits, slinging her feet over the tall loft edge and swinging them in the high open air.

Wakizian laughs at the first thing she days, and then as she continues, he freezes. If she weren't so busy heading over to the ladder, she'd be able to watch the Smith-made gears turn in his head. After a few moments, he blinks and straightens up, squaring his shoulders, nodding to himself, brow creased. Then he turns and follows her to the ladder opening, standing behind her, "You know, Mave. You really are smart. You're right. It's- irresponsible for me to be thinking about kissing and dates right now." His tone tells that he means every word of what he says. "So, my apologies Mave. I put you in an unfair position." Beat. "I'll not do it again. Unless-- until-- it can mean something." He moves around her then to start making his way down the ladder. "Let me know when you want help want help with your numbers. And I'll get my marks and make a bet soon."

"O- ohhh..." either she wasn't expecting to be right, or wasn't expecting him to see it. Either way, Mave's left, gaping up, and then down, at him as he states then begins to climb. "Umm." It starts out sounding important. She might've meant to accept his apology. But with the continued noise of the ladder being descended, and runners shuffling, there's no more from Mave until, as he reaches the bottom, she leans over and calls, "Okay." From above, her hair tumbles over her shoulders, framing her peering face that watches him, then turns. She glides a knee up onto the loft, pushing her body back over onto its plane, hiding her from Wakizian's retreating view. Hiding, because she flails her shoulders and then collapses into the pile of nearest hay with a whump, arms extended bonelessly. She writhes unhappily a second and then sighs. And then... writhes again, because, shit, dammit, there's hay under her shirt and this was a terrible idea--

Wakizian raises a hand up to give a single wave to the girl poking her head into the hole. Then he turns, clacking his boot-heels together, inadvertently, reeling a second before stepping off to exit the barn. "Well, that was mature and responsible of me." He mumbles to himself, but suddenly, he doesn't look even a little bit happy about it. "Maybe I can at least avoid a matching set." Meaning the bruise to his eyes. With a heavy sigh, his feet plod him onward, away from temptation and towards responsible adulthood.