Logs:The Bigger Picture
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| RL Date: 9 March, 2015 |
| Who: V'ros, H'vier, Zmeyth, Reisoth |
| Type: Log |
| What: V'ros and H'vier almost get into a fist fight. |
| Where: Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 3, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Cold. |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions |
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| The snowfall outside comes down steadily, adding bulk to the dunes already scattering the ground, and covering everything in a significant, icy frost. It's in the midst of the bustle of daily activity in the weyrbowl that V'ros finds himself. He's barely recognizable in a thick coat over his riding gear and woolen cap pulled low over his brow, but the reptilian-patterned brown nearby saves others the trouble of guessing. While Zmeyth is stoically lounging, collecting a crusting of snow, his rider is patiently waiting for a gaggle of crafters to sort out whatever argument they're having amongst themselves, their voices rising in agitation over a set of crates at their feet. Reisoth lands nearby, H'vier unstrapping himself with practiced ease before dropping to the ground. The bronze eyes the gaggle briefly, but his attention swings toward Niahvth's ledge while he waits. H'vier's attention lingers, though, and his steps carry him toward the crafters. There's a brief glance at the brown's rider before he says to the rest, "Is there a problem here? I'm sure this young man has better things to do than wait around for you idiots to figure your shit out in the snow." Impeccable manners, as always. H'vier's interruption causes the all-male cast of crafters to pause and turn questioning stares on the large bronzerider, but once they've ascertained that he's not pertinent to their discussion, they go right back to squabbling loudly. "Don't bother," V'ros mutters, "they've been like.. this.. all morning. Not sure they ever wanted the boxes moved in the first place." He shrugs carelessly and slants a look towards Reisoth. "Any news on.. Niahvth's eggs?" He's trying an attempt at conversation, as awkward as it is. "Useless assholes," growls H'vier, not exactly privately, before his attention is turning on the brownrider. "Don't let them waste your time. Leave them here to work their shit out. They can find someone when they're ready. Someone who won't be tempted to leave their damned boxes between." The last is said a little louder so maybe the crafters will hear him. Not that V'ros would do that, but H'vier kind of wants to already and he only just got here. "The eggs should come at some point in the next month or so," he says as his steps draw him closer to V'ros and further from the crafters. "Were you there?" A tall man with a spectacular bald spot leaves no doubt as to their hearing H'vier's taunt as he turns and displays his middle finger proudly. V'ros smirks and shifts, angling away from the crafters. "I couldn't risk it being.. something good. One of them's a vintner, could be worth not sending between," he muses aloud. His face blanches after that, fingers reaching to tug his cap over his ears. There's a grunt, before, "At the flight? Uh.. yeah. I was. You were," obviously, "but, uh, yeah, congrats. Didn't get to say that. Everyone's busy talking about.. you know, Igen's stake, too busy to remember it's half our own." Even if H'vier is Istan. H'vier snorts at that prospect. "One crate of booze lost between would surely not matter in the grand scheme of things. One vintner, too, for that matter." It's no secret that vintners, despite his great love for alcohol, are not his most favorite people, what with the mother of his children being one and, you know, not involved with him at all. "Thanks, kid. I know you don't mean it. But, thanks." H'vier doesn't sound annoyed now. Amused, more like. "Everyone does like to talk, don't they. What's your take?" Underneath his cap, V'ros' brows are knitted together, but his smirk remains the only outward evidence of his mindfulness of the booze-in-crate. "Yeah." He shrugs off the gratitude, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Doesn't matter what I think, does it? Uh.. I.." Another shrug, this one reflective of uncertainty. "Not like we'd lose anything. We need the gold.. if there's one.. and, um, if she hadn't.. risen, we wouldn't be out eggs anyway. Let them go where they want to go. If it's Igen.. so be it." "If it didn't matter what you thought, I sure as fuck wouldn't have asked." H'vier is not known for being a masterful conversationalist, after all. "Anyway, we don't need more golds. The only thing they're good for is making more dragons and calming down the idiots who get hurt. And if we're all free to go wherever we please, I think I'd like to go somewhere warmer. Maybe I'll join them." It's hard to tell if he's being serious or making a point. Maybe he's not sure himself. The brownrider's silence is deliberate, filling in the space between bouts of H'vier's ranting. Do we.. need more.. of the others? I didn't think our wings were.. uh, short. But a wingleader would know more than he would, so he bows his head a bit and watches the crafters as they try to spin one of the crates in the snow, which is becoming increasingly harder the longer it sits. Igen? V'ros sounds surprised. Didn't know you had a thing for endless deserts. The brownrider's silence is deliberate, filling in the space between bouts of H'vier's ranting. "Do we.. need more.. of the others? I didn't think our wings were.. uh, short." But a wingleader would know more than he would, so he bows his head a bit and watches the crafters as they try to spin one of the crates in the snow, which is becoming increasingly harder the longer it sits. "Igen?" V'ros sounds surprised. "Didn't know you had a thing for endless deserts." H'vier looks from V'ros to the brown dragon and back to the rider, brows furrowed thoughfully. "No. That's what I'm fucking saying." He refrains from calling V'ros something offensive, at least. "We don't need any more dragons. And that's precisely what another gold will give us. When a headwoman could do the exact same job just as well without making more dragons to feed." The last makes the bronzerider rolls his eyes, glancing casually, if contemptuously, toward the crafters as he says, "You don't know if I have things about anything." "Uh." V'ros definitely looks unsure, now. "You don't.. you don't want any of them to stay?" He's confused by this, given it's H'vier's dragon who sired the whole clutch. "I don't.. um." Staring at the crafters, clumsily fumbling with their crate, is much easier than staring the bronzerider in the face. "No. I don't," plain. The bronzerider didn't come into this conversation with violent thoughts. He's been pretty good about controlling his anger issues of late, in fact. But he's starting to look as though he'd like to punch something. It's subtle, though, mostly in the tension of his jaw and stance. "I'm not talking about this clutch, V'ros. I'm proud of Reisoth for siring the clutch and I intend on all of the weyrlings staying here. But you should, on occasion, consider the larger picture and not just what's in front of your face." Though maybe H'vier shouldn't use figurative language with this one. "What're we.." V'ros glances at H'vier briefly, and then back to the crafters. "..talking about, then?" A hand moves to shove one of V'ros' shoulders as H'vier steps closer into the brownrider's space. "Pay attention, you simple little--" He cuts himself off before finishing that thought. Such restraint! "It's people like you who are the problem, boy. It pains me that a dragon was wasted on you." That shoulder jerks back from the impact, a grunt following close on its heels. Animosity takes the place of uncertainty on V'ros' pale oval of a face. "Fuck you, H'vier," the brownrider grounds out. He doesn't bother to show the Iceberg wingleader any form of respect. "The fuck did you just say?" with a threatening step towards the much, much larger man; surely, this will go well. Smoke and darkness, and crackling flames and muted muttering, reaching out like an intangible haze. « I don't make mistakes, » Zmeyth assures the bronze, fully confident in his abilities, whereas H'vier is not. (To Reisoth from Zmeyth) Well, that's more like it. Perhaps H'vier should look more upset because of the disrespect instead of eager because of the possibility of violence. "I said your dragon is wasted on you. Or maybe he was made for you. You seem to have pretty bad judgement, too." To Zmeyth, Reisoth is cool and objective, supporting neither rider's side over the other. He seems indifferent to their exchange, at best. Bored, perhaps, is more likely. « You are biased by your proximity to the issue. » Just the same as he's biased by his proximity to his issue. His rider. Whatever. Iceberg's wingleader might have a distinct height advantage, but that doesn't stop V'ros from pacing right up to the other man with no small amount of anger. "Yeah.. yeah.. you're one to talk, fucking big shot. Think you're all that because you got a promotion out of a fuck." Whoa, badass coming through. The smoke roils. « That what you're calling it these days? » Impression is the implication. (To Reisoth from Zmeyth) H'vier looks down at the younger man, clearly agitated but not particularly threatened. "I'm 'all that'," V'ros' words, not his, "because I can see the fucking bigger picture. The sex was just a bonus." Don't ask him what the extra daughter is. "You gonna take a swing, little man?" To Zmeyth, Reisoth's presence becomes heavier as his focus settles more directly on the brown, as though his baritone is as weighty as it is deep. « I was referring to our riders. Obviously. » Obviously. « Sometimes one must make do with the options available. » Tension rests in the stiff set of his shoulders and his balled up fists. It's with extreme control that V'ros simply clenches his jaw instead of taking a hit at the bronzerider. "Fuck. You. H'vier. That's what you'd like," the younger man bites out, and then abruptly turns, leaving H'vier and the still-squabbling crafters behind. A sharp crackle sounds suspiciously like amusement. « You're telling me. » And then the brown recedes, darkness swallowing all of his smoke and background noise. (To Reisoth from Zmeyth) He doesn't laugh, but there's definitely a moment where Reisoth seems amused before his presence fades away. (To Zmeyth from Reisoth) Of course that's what he'd like. It would give him a good excuse to return the gesture. Fortunately, when V'ros takes the higher road and turns away, H'vier doesn't escalate to physicality himself. "I knew you didn't have it in you," is all that follows the brownrider before he, too, is turning to stomp his way past the crafters, shouldering the one who had flipped him off along the way. The bronze follows his rider on foot until he's clear of the crafters, then leaps into a glide toward Niahvth's ledge where H'vier will be hard-pressed to remove him once the bronzerider has let off whatever steam is necessary elsewhere. |
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