Logs:Stupid Is As Stupid Does
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| RL Date: 31 December, 2004 |
| Who: Sasha, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 26, Month 9, Turn 1 (Interval 10) |
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| Itchy hay. The smell of horses. Sasha is here, dirty, with a sheen of sweat over his pale northern skin. Bored, surly, he drives punch after punch into tightly baled straw. Some long-faced runners look on, hanging their heads over the sides of their stalls; their long-lashed eyes look serene. Others lounge by, chewing fodder from their trays, or lay on the ground for a time. Divvied into stalls, Satiet's dark hair bobbles into view above one long wooden wall, a soft soothing sound clucking at one of the runner's in the stalls. And slowly, she drifts into full view, coming around the bend of wood with fingers trailing against the deep mahogany hide of this stall's occupant. Her long fingers twitch against the runner's muzzle, a sharp look cast towards the punching and grunting noise from the would-be boxer. "So this is where you spend your free time?" Smiling sardonically, she continues, pulling a bit of hay from her hair to play with, "Should've figured. Hay for pigs." "Can't drink," he grunts, "can't rut, can't leave." Thud, thud, thud. "Nothing else better to do." His eyes do not budge from the bale of hay, disinterested in her presence. His punches leave off a moment, as he passes rough fingers over the knuckles of his right hand. "Who says you can't drink?" Pale eyes drift to the bale of hay, Satiet giving the runner one last gentle rub between the eyes and then wandering over to perch herself out of the way, ankles crossed, arms folded over her chest. "Just don't get drunk, and I've a mind you can handle your liquor unlike some people. Amarie, I bet you give her a shot of whiskey and down she goes." An unspoken challege brightens her eyes, "And you can do whatever you want as long as you don't get caught. Not getting caught? Is the key," she murmurs, "As one particular bronzerider's told me time and time again. There's just the dishwench in the kitchens for you." The name brings no reaction nor recognition from him; he hasn't bothered to get to know any of the candidates. Their stories, fates, hopes, and dreams mean nothing to him. Only solemn Dharien seems to be known to him, so far, the quiet boy who tries to keep him from causing trouble. It's said they were both searched by a dragon in the middle of a fight. "Pimping girls out for me, how sweet," he replies, "and here I thought you were a senseless cow. I'm not going to waste my candidacy on some trollop. I can get what I need." He waggles his fingers at her. His knuckles are reddened and a little cut from raggedy straw. The slender stalk of hay is slipped into the corner of her mouth, the female candidate chewing at the end idly. Satiet's expression remains set in its cross between fascinated by Sasha's indifference, and the minxy look of a cat in a game with a mouse. "You've a high opinion of yourself to think you can get a girl without some help. Kitchen girls don't do it for you then, I'm guessing?" The blue overcasts with a shadowed look, her reclined position against a stack of hay unwavering. "We're well-matched then. Senseless cow and rutting pig." A glance darts back, as if looking for some authority figure, before she turns a smirk marring her delicate features. "I've a rider bringing me some goods sometime this sevenday. You have anything to nip at?" His eyes venture her way, then, after a few moments of soft stable sounds. Hay rustle. Hoof stomp. A few rumbly runner noises. They return to the hay bale, and his fists. "Trying to make friends with me, Moo?" he asks. "No." Satiet replies flatly, arms disengaging to rub against the side of her pants. "No one -needs- a pig for a friend. But you're different from them," chin jerks towards the candidate barracks. "And drinking alone is never any fun. Neither's other enjoyments for that matter." A pointed look is shot towards the red knuckles. "You remind me of M'rek. Always looking to pick a fight, that drunken sot." But the last insult is said with a mired note of affection, or at the very least fondness for 'that drunken brawler.' "Pigs of a kind?" His punching leaves off when the bale falls off its stack, bowed back out in the middle. He gives a short sharp snort. "Used to fight back at home," he says, rubbing sweat from his brow onto his upper arm. "In the tavern. Used to win, too." Fierce pride in that, as if it were some accomplishment for some young buck to topple drunken has-beens. In his world it is. "Til M'rek brought me here to work. He's my cousin. My father's people." "You're ever so magnificent," Satiet mutters. "What is it with men and fights. You two.." when it comes up that the two are related, her pale eyes roll in exasperation. "Never out of trouble I bet, you." Using her upper body, she pulls herself off the haystack and comes to stand off directly at Sasha's side, close enough to be able to, if she wanted to, breath over his shoulder. Disdainfully, the bale of hay is given a squinted glare, "Anyone can hit drunks. Anyone can hit some hay. You're no good at fighting otherwise, are you?" He's hauling the haybale back into position, bent slightly, with a hand down on it, as he hammers out the other side flat with his palm. To her he coolly conveys, "No, but you know Robinton and his gitar? I'm the Robinton of hitting women. Just once and they shut up. Why don't you shove off, whatever your name is." No immediate response from him, like he doesn't care, has nothing to prove. He's still hammering the haybale back into shape, ignoring her-- until he's finished. Then of a sudden his hand whips back. Not to strike her but to try and grab some of that raven hair. As she doesn't move, it's not difficult to grab ahold of a good chunk of hair. Still standing solid, nary a flinch on her features, the blue eyes instead mock the other candidate, followed soon by low-pitched, cruel laughter. "Didn't think so." Satiet's own hand comes up to try and place a hold on Sasha's wrist in order to pry him away, "Go back to hitting your hay men. There's nothing better for you than that." "You don't want me to hit you," he tells her, in a low voice, giving a good, wrenching slow twist of her hair. "Trust me on this. I'm not stupid. Are you?" He lets her go with a shove. "Why don't you run along?" "You're smarter than you look, pig." Satiet's own hand clenches reflexively, but other signs of violence are held at bay. The wince, only surfaces after her face has turned away, though through much control, she doesn't touch her scalp until she's ambled out of the stables. "It was a pleasure meeting you, again." The mocking laughter that trails from the exit is light, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Tags: *high reaches weyr, ^candidacy, sasha, satiet |
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