Logs:Bedside Propositions
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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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| One of the taller candidates goes about the room, shutting the windows on the glow lanterns around the caverns, leaving only a few here and there cracked open to spill enough light for visibility in the barracks. Once the boy passes by Satiet's cot located in the center of the girl's side, her hand lifts to wave him on, smiling briefly, "Still finishing up some reading." The hides balanced against her knees, a letter, are indicated and the boy moves on wordlessly. The flat end of a stylus keeps her place as she reads each line carefully. Nearby, in one of the cots that flanks her own, Joilin snores. Sasha is flat on his stomach, a long hairy arm over the side, laying like a ship wrecked on the shore. Lately he seems to grow more restless, with a stutter in his monumental snore. Scattered along the purple coverlet on her cot are bits and pieces of larger hide that's been ripped into smaller sheets. One of them, obviously a discarded reply from the numerous scratches on the sheet, is crumpled up thoughtfully in Satiet's hand, and aimed at Joilin's head. "Shush you," the alto hisses softly, and then narrows in on another snorer a little across the ways. The blonde candidate shifts uneasily, brushing the hide off her head with still slumbering gestures and rolls onto her otherside. The letter is put aside, and Satiet steps out of her cot to reach down and pick up the crumpled ball again. *plop* Not an arc, but with more a whizzing flick it heads towards Sasha's nose. Placidly, she perches herself on the side of her bed. One of the taller candidates goes about the room, shutting the windows on the glow lanterns around the caverns, leaving only a few here and there cracked open to spill enough light for visibility in the barracks. Once the boy passes by Satiet's cot located in the center of the girl's side, her hand lifts to wave him on, smiling briefly, "Still finishing up some reading." The hides balanced against her knees, a letter, are indicated and the boy moves on wordlessly. The flat end of a stylus keeps her place as she reads each line carefully. Nearby, in one of the cots that flanks her own, Joilin snores. Sasha is flat on his stomach, a long hairy arm over the side, laying like a ship wrecked on the shore. Lately he seems to grow more restless, with a stutter in his monumental snore. Scattered along the purple coverlet on her cot are bits and pieces of larger hide that's been ripped into smaller sheets. One of them, obviously a discarded reply from the numerous scratches on the sheet, is crumpled up thoughtfully in Satiet's hand, and aimed at Joilin's head. "Shush you," the alto hisses softly, and then narrows in on another snorer a little across the ways. The blonde candidate shifts uneasily, brushing the hide off her head with still slumbering gestures and rolls onto her otherside. The letter is put aside, and Satiet steps out of her cot to reach down and pick up the crumpled ball again. *plop* Not an arc, but with more a whizzing flick it heads towards Sasha's nose. Placidly, she perches herself on the side of her bed. His response comes with sleep's delay, a grumble, and he burrows his face into his cot. Moments later he comes drowsily awake, blinking his eyes, his whole face squinted up. Her hair's been pulled back out of her face, no call to be caught in anyone's grasp this time around, and in the long corridor of cots, only a few people are awake here and there, indulging in the same activity that Satiet was until moments prior. To her press she goes, withdrawing thin strips of linens and a bit of overly flowery ointment and to Sasha's cot she heads, tossing both onto the other candidate's cot, uncaring if the objects actually hit him instead of fall onto the free parts of his bedding. "It'll hurt less if you hit with your hands bound up." Is she being nice? "Someone as pansy as you, probably needs the extra protection." With that same grimace of a look, he takes the ointment, bringing it to a nostril. "Oh, how thoughtful," he sneers, "have you brought me some cream for my face? Now I will be as pretty as the other ladies." He squints an eye then, giving her a horrid look. "I don't need your junk." He flips it away. "Suit yourself," she returns quickly, the speed of her reply indicating she discerned his answer even before attempting to be thoughtful. "I was just thinking of you, you know. Since no one else really cares about you anyway and your knuckles'll be too raw to go punch straw men again tomorrow." Satiet speaks with the tone of one all too familiar with bloodied knuckles, though her own hands, the ones that lay flat against her legs are mark free. With the knowledge people are around, she lifts her chin arrogantly, deigning to assess Sasha aloud, "You're a horrid -little- man." Sasha gives her what they call a Bitran salute. It involves one finger. His face slumps back down onto the pillow again. But then it lifts, fractionally, with his chin dug in. "We'll never be friends," he warns her. "Stop trying." "Who said anything about friends?" Satiet intones slyly, her gaze dark in the shadows of the glow-less room. She leaves the discarded 'gifts' on the floor for whoever has cleanup duty and invites herself to perch on the edge of Sasha's cot. "You don't look like you really want to be here, so why pretend?" "If I didn't," he counters, "why would I?" His head drops on the pillow, and he shuts his eye. His long braid has been pulled out for the night, and his choppy dark hair is everywhere. "I don't waste my time for no reason. I'll wash dishes and shovel shite well enough, if it'll get me my dragon." "It seems to be a waste of your time all these rules." Interested eyes peek up from their various cots, and Satiet gives them all the all too well-known 'he's being so difficult' look, with an indulgent smile overtly for the other candidate. Once appeased that nothing big will happen tonight, and other eyes drift back to their various pre-bedtime tasks, the blue eyes narrow onto the back of Sasha's head. It's only a second before she's reaching out to attempt to tweak his hair sharply. An irritated growl buzzes his pillow, and his hand slaps the back of his head, like some insect has just bit him. "What do you want from me?" "Teach me to fight, and I'll stop irritating you," Satiet replies tartly, wrestling her fingers free from under his smack. "Tomorrow, stables." "Girls can't fight," he tells her, twisting back a look over his shoulder. His broken nose flares its nostrils unattractively. "Easier to teach shite not to stink." "Teach me, unless you're just afraid of getting in trouble and sent home." Cold and calculating, the alto brooks no argument, at least so she thinks. At odds with her less than lady-like request, Satiet folds her hands in her lap primly, and regards the other candidate in a quietly intense study. "I bet you, by the time the hatching comes I'll be able to flatten you into the ground." Sasha A fight-picking young man mean as a bull. He's tall for his age, wide in the shoulders and chest, but baby fat still clings stubbornly to his physique. Around seventeen, he's seen many turns of hard chores. His hands are gnarled from work, callused, and the right's burned. He has a thick rope of dark hair in a braid, and dark eyes to match. His features are broad, chapped from the cold, with a blunt broken nose and a densely freckled complexion. He looks like a brick dressed in fur and tough cloth, with massive boots. "Do you want me clinging to your arm constantly until either you Impress and I don't, or I Impress and you don't, or until we both don't Impress and get sent home? I don't think so." A distasteful wrinkle of her nose and a smirking curl of her lip is shot towards the prone candidate. "I have reasons, none of your business. And I doubt you're that strong." Dubious gaze flicks over the burly candidate's arms. "Tch. Maybe asking you is stupid of me, since you obviously can't hurt a fly." The rustle of fabric against fabric, the sounds of a robe being held tighter around her frame are heard as she moves way. "I'll ask M'rek. He doesn't seem afraid of much of anything including," she pauses, the smirk heard in her words rather than seen, "Shitey pansy rules. Don't sleep too deeply." "Stop hurting my feelings.. I'll cry." Muffled sniffling emanates from beneath his pillow. Then, curtly, he says, "I don't do anything for free." Adding, "And I doubt you have anything of interest to me." "Think on it. I'm sure your pig-like brain will think of something quick enough," are her last words, only a little triumphant, before closing the shades on the lantern above her cot. The hides and pieces of hide littering her bed are cleaned up in one easy sweep and dumped into her press before she slips under her covers. "'I'm mure mmph mmph-mike mmph mill mink mmph mmmph-ming mmick mm-nough,'" he mocks her voice in a prissy, mumbly falsetto, into the sheet of his cot. He sends her a nasty glance from beneath his pillow, then, just one eye showing, like a rotten wher peering out of the gloom of its den. Then he pulls the pillow down, and goes back to bed. |
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