Logs:Music and Monsters
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| RL Date: 22 December, 2015 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Kh'tyr invades the barracks and drags Olivya out of bed |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 8, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ebeny/Mentions, Lilah/Mentions, Kharson/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: The song Kh'tyr was singing was Scorn Not His Simplicity by Phil Coulter. |
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| Little known fact: the barracks has great acoustics. It carries the warm bass tones of one drunken brownrider as he lays in a dragon wallow (clean, before him) about halfway down one of the two chambers that normally house young dragon pairs. "See the child with the burnt klah hair but eyes that show the emptiness inside," the words lilt hauntingly in the space. Hauntingly and loudly. No one was trying to sleep, were they? "Do we know can we understand just how he feels or have we really tried? See him now as he stands alone and watches children play a children's game, simple child he looks almost like the others yet they know he's not the same." It goes on, of course. And on, the rhythm and notes only briefly interrupted so Kh'tyr can take lengthy gulps from his bottle of whiskey. Her furniture has only just been moved into the weyrlingmaster's attached weyr, the work of two dragonriders willing to help the Monacoan on a chance to get on her good side. She was sleeping, not alone, mind you. But she comes alone to investigate the muffled sounds, wrapped into a soft, silky amber robe that cuts across her thighs and sleep-mussed curls. Bare feet give away little in warning, before she appears at the front of the barracks. Instead of standing and watching, waiting for him to notice her, Olivya speaks up immediately to say, "Kh'tyr." The song breaks off mid-line, just after, "Scorn not his simplicity," and there's a moment of silence before her name pops out in evenly stressed syllables, "O-liv-ya," and a nonchalant, but slurred, "Not disturbing your orgy, am I?" Kh'tyr's no less an asshole when he's drunk, evidently. "You dragged me out of bed," is all Olivya will comment, not confirming or denying the question, not feeding it. She will draw closer, her arms crossed below her breasts as she moves to the edge of the wallow. "Not that I don't appreciate your lovely voice, darling, but--." Her soft blue eyes trail over his form, studying him as she waits for an answer that she clearly expects. "You could've ignored me," Kh'tyr dismisses, not moving from his obvious 'I ran and jumped into this wallow full of pillows' sprawl. "I have the utmost faith in your ability to shut me out. Did it once, got the knot, just do what you did then," he encourages, making a little shooing motion. Answer? No, there's no answer, just another drink taken. "Waiting for me to cry too?" It's clear that that marks hits home in ways that others haven't in the past, as the Weyrlingmaster stiffens, tenses. But that gaze doesn't leave him as she takes in a slow breath and then breathes out, "When have I ignored you, Kh'tyr? Given you what you want-- No. But I've never ignored you." She doesn't leave, though she doesn't draw closer into the wallow, at least. "You ignored me when I asked you not to take this from me!" It's an abrupt shout, the storm of anger suddenly clouding his face and receding fast enough to give a girl whiplash. Kh'tyr drinks again. "Tell me, O-liv-ya, do you live to crush the dreams of others? Do you get off on it? Is that why you came out here and left whoever it was in there?" He assumes. Unless he was a real creeper and paused by the door for long enough. "Pick someone who doesn't do it for you by mistake?" Olivya's lips press into a line at the shout, even as something softens briefly in her expression. Regret? Guilt? It is gone before it can be identified, as she breathes out a quiet, "You barely wanted it, Kh'tyr. I encouraged you to go after it, before the fucking mess this all became. I told you to pursue the knot when you were still under Ebeny." She still doesn't engage on the more personal accusations, saying nothing on the subject of whoever is left in her bed and how satisfying they might have been. But she adds, admits, "I wanted you to have it, but not as much as I wanted it." "I barely--!" Kh'tyr's so angry the rest of the sentence doesn't even get out. He's so angry he sits up and wings a pillow toward Olivya. It's the big sort made for dragons, so it doesn't actually get much in the way of loft, falling far short. "I came here on the most tenuous promise made to a goldrider, a goldrider who might've given me that damned knot if I'd done well by her, and I sure as shards did well by her even though she wasn't here to see it. And then what happened? Let's see. Mograith had the bad sense to fuck your green, and we had a conversation, and I came back with renewed intention to find a way to make the knot mine, come what may, and then what--" He slaps his forehead like he's an idiot who forgot, "That's right, the mother fucking plague! So the Weyr was here dying while I was trapped a world away with a madman and his homely whore and he damn well went and died on me, the asshole!" Somehow, that took a left somewhere; blame the booze. Kh'tyr's jaw trembles it's so tight, keeping worse from passing his lips. There's no reason to react to the pillow throwing, so Olivya simply-- doesn't, beyond the bare hint of surprise for the outburst. Or perhaps for Kh'tyr's words, as she listens silently. She steps forward, around the pillow and to the edge of the next, sinking to kneel thoroughly in the wallow now as that robe shifts to reveal one thigh, part of a breast as she takes in a deep breath again that gives her away. Because next, she manages to get out a quiet, careful, "I am sorry, darling. I am. For Ivraeth, for the knot, for the plague. I am sorry." Kh'tyr stares at her, jaw still clenched. It's like the breast and thigh don't even register, and maybe they don't. Nothing he hasn't seen before. There's silence for a moment, and then he's flopping back to drink again. Two swallows later, he speaks, but his tone is distant, quiet, almost forlorn. "Go back to your bedmate, Liv. There are monsters here you should want no part of. Let the booze do its work and purge them. I'll try to keep it down." Olivya leans forward, but only to reach for the whiskey bottle in Kh'tyr's hands, to pry it out when he might not be expecting it after he's already taken his drinks. If she can, she only lifts it to her lips for a quick swallow of her own before returning it to him. "I'm not afraid of monsters, Kh'tyr," she tells him, but she does start to rise with her usual fluid grace. A pause, before she allows, "If I were the better person, I would give up the knot for you. It should have been yours, and Monaco's should have been mine." But, it is clear-- she is not that better person. Kh'tyr isn't, obviously, thrilled when his bottle of booze is snatched away and he glowers at her until she gives it back. He has her snort for her claim about monsters, but he doesn't speak until she's done, at which point there's a, "Pfft. Bitch." Only... it might just be humor that colors his word. That might be progress. "I know," agrees Olivya easily, lingering only for a moment longer as she considers whether leaving the brownrider there drinking is the right thing to do. She tips a nod after that brief consideration, returning to the draw of her warm bed and the companion within just as Kh'tyr suggested. True to his word, he tries to keep it down. But if ever there's volume that carries enough to be heard, he matches it. At least, until Kh'tyr passes out for the night, right there. |
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