Logs:She Moved Out (WTF)
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| RL Date: 6 November, 2015 |
| Who: E'dre, N'rov |
| Type: Log |
| What: The boys try and talk (then shove like children) |
| Where: Council Room, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 3, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Neither noticed the weather. |
| Mentions: Ebeny/Mentions, C'sel/Mentions, Cece/Mentions, Y'ral/Mentions |
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| When the council room's lousy with riders, that's one thing, leaning over the long table for a better look at the maps; nobody's talking about their leader's weyrmate right out, and a couple riders might not even know yet (though that's unlikely to last, given the expressions now and again that speak of dragon-talk). But once Hematite does have its assignments... strange how there aren't any stragglers today, the place clearing out in nothing flat. Then it's just the two of them, N'rov giving E'dre a long look and then moving to the sideboard to pour drinks for them both. Thanks, Vhaeryth. Is it Wroth in control of E'dre today? There's been nothing but short answers and growled responses directed to Hematite's riders during their meeting. He's got no patience for banter and anyone caught directing those looks - those ones that know - are given a severe scowl. There is no improvement to his mood when he finds himself stranded in the room with N'rov. Alone. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms in front of him. The object of annoyance and not at all interested in whatever N'rov's pouring unless it's stiff. Thanks to Vhaeryth, E'dre doesn't even try to start a conversation with the bronzerider. Awkwardness and anger abounds. It's good and stiff, all right. N'rov sets E'dre's glass before him, if from the side so he's not that much in the older man's personal space, and moves off to leans against the table. "Tell me," he says, "she didn't take your favorite pillow." "You're going to go there?" E'dre demands of N'rov, not bothering with the space as he glares up at the bronzerider. "I'd have thought you'd figure it out like the rest of them have and avoid me at all costs, much less stating the obvious." He reaches for that drink and sniffs it cautiously before downing half the contents. His grimace isn't all from the booze. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" "And yet, here I am." N'rov snaps his fingers illustratively. "Call me the foreappointed sacrifice to soothe the savage beast," except his sardonic grin suggests anything but. "Guess it's better than booting you out, but sweet Faranth, a sky weyr in wintertime with Laurienth..." "She's pregnant with your baby," E'dre reminds N'rov, glaring down into the now empty contents of that cup. "It was never going to be easy. She wants me to be mad at her, or hate the baby, or I don't know." He shoves his fingers back through his hair and lets loose a frustrated sigh through clenched teeth. He looks up at N'rov then. "It's going to get worse. How are you going to help?" That last question is delivered with enough animosity as to be far from a signal for help. Muscles work in N'rov's jaw, and he shoots the brownrider a 'No, really?' look. Ebeny's wantings get a dark grunt. "That's messed up." Evidently 'helping' amounts to, after downing a portion of his drink, pouring for E'dre. "One of those, 'If you're not pissed, you don't care' things," is an even darker speculation. "You're so fucking easy-going," E'dre growls out, taking that refreshed drink but doing nothing more than clasping it between tightened fingers. "I don't know. Pregnant women aren't easy to know." He shakes his head and glowers down at his glass and then back up at N'rov. "I'm supposed to be angry at you," he shares, scowl lessening a little. "But I really can't find the energy to be." He sighs and allows all further traces of his earlier anger to abate behind another gulp from his glass. "Only to piss you off more," N'rov assures, topping off his own glass before setting down the decanter and stretching. "If you change your mind and want to hit something, we can." He drinks, a shallow, uncommitted sip, as he looks at the brownrider. "So how're you going to get her back? Do you want her back? And has she always been so 'I suck, suck so much,' or is that new?" "Of course I want her back!" E'dre's got a shout for that as he slams that glass against the table for emphasis. "It took me too long to get this far! Just for one lousy flight and a baby who has done nothing to me to ruin it." He levels a glare at N'rov, "You've been with her you have no concept of who she is?" Dryly, "Just checking." N'rov's at once composed and intent, gaze staying on the other man. "You tell me. If you want. Or not if you want, I don't care. What I want is for you two to get back to happy, happy weyrmates. What's that going to take?" "You not fucking her next chance you get," E'dre tells N'rov with absolutely no intent other than being nasty. He stands abruptly from the table and shoves the chair back to give himself room. "Would truly help. You stepping up and checking on her, and the baby you helped create, would help. You can't be hands off in this. It will only make it worse." He's got loads of other things to say but settles for a glare. "And let's make sure we don't talk about this again, right? Let's keep it professional." Because E'dre is always really good at that. "I already haven't." N'rov, helpful. He's still leaning, but with E'dre up like that, there's a shift in balance that's ready to move. "For your in-for-ma-tion," drawled out syllable by syllable, "the healer said to 'give her space,' complete with 'this happens all the time,' and let's not forget the cow eyes. I'll take the kid, like she said. But in the meantime, I don't think you want me going up there and asking what I can do to help, when you're the one she needs." "I don't think you should take 'the kid'," E'dre replies on the heel of that drawled out response. "I'm glad you've gone to a healer. Do whatever you need to to be supportive. But we'll take the kid." It's going to come down to a tug-o-war on that one. "Whatever best supports Ben. I know from personal experience," and here the brownrider has enough decency to look sad rather than angry, "that it won't be easy no matter how we proceed." He sighs and seems prepared to take himself elsewhere. "Just do your best, N'rov." "Ebeny," N'rov tells him tightly, "already said that she didn't want it." Each word is its own sentence. "So I fail to see where you get to make her." It's that mention of that personal experience; with something closer to kindness, "Listen. E'dre. The fuck this is like you and what's his name. It's not like that." "She will always insist that until the child is here and in her arms," E'dre counters N'rov's tightness with his own. "I've been through this already." He shakes his head and lifts his brow at N'rov. "Sure, it won't be like that," he agrees, "only because you probably won't fall in love with her. But I did." He sighs then and uses both hands to rub at his temples and jaw to temper his growing headache. "I never talked to him about this. You don't have to talk to me about it either." "Maybe." The other man's been through it, but that doesn't erode N'rov's bedrock doubt. "Maybe she shouldn't," have it in her arms. They have wet-nurses. They have ways. But for how it's different, he rolls his shoulders, slow and deliberate for emphasis; the drink he takes is deeper this time too. "Yeah, you did. Not me. I like my women with more spark, none of that 'I don't matter' wherbait. On top of how," exasperation growing, "she's your weyrmate, and if you'd just get the job done, we wouldn't be talking about this at all." It's N'rov's dig at Ben (or the perceived one) that has E'dre saying in a low voice, eyes flashing and words meant to blow, "You like your women dead." And then that cup somehow is knocked over, the remaining liquid dripping down towards the floor. Someone will have to clear it up and it won't be E'dre. "Get the job done? I'm too busy doing a sharding job with this Weyr that none of you fucking bronzeriders can manage to do!" He's turning and prepared to leave, going so far as to shoulder past N'rov for that hit of contact as he goes. N'rov has no mind, no look for that liquid and for the finish of that table; gray eyes are hard on E'dre, his hand clenching around the glass that he sets, forcibly, to the wood. It doesn't break. He starts to speak, but whatever he says is lost in the brownrider's syllables, that low and that harsh; and if the brownrider wants contact, he'll give him that, stepping in hard with the thrust of a shove. This probably was coming when E'dre first dumped ale on N'rov. The need to release all frustrations through physical contact drives the brownrider forward after he's recovered from that shove. He's not swinging so much as lunging for the bronzerider, aiming to take the taller man down to the ground. Words? Are so past being used at this point. So are chairs. And the table; N'rov may pivot so he doesn't go down, but its stone edge is going to leave a red bar of a bruise after the brownrider gets him that far, the area too crowded to really move... which doesn't stop N'rov from attempting to hook E'dre's ankle and shove despite the chair that really, really wants to get in the way. And since that chair wants it so badly, E'dre falls victim to its location and stumbles back and over it. He's reaching out for stability as he grabs hold of N'rov's shirt for balance that is never achieved. Feet go flying as hands spiral out to try and catch him as he lands in a tangle of limbs in furniture. He's stuck beneath the bronzerider which is far from where that initial lunge was supposed to take him. He's swearing and shoving at N'rov once he's recovered enough sense to want the man off. He doesn't have balance, N'rov's shirt doesn't have balance, and neither does the man himself. There's more swearing as the bronzerider cracks his elbow into the sideboard, the carafes shuddering but far enough back to hold; it seems he'd like to get up despite E'dre's eye right there for the blackening, but it's hard when there's shoving and... "Fuck!" N'rov's scrambling back, wincing, that knee too close. That knee is too close and maybe it's an accident if it happens to knock some against N'rov. Maybe it isn't. Either way, E'dre manages to maneuver from beneath the bronzerider and upright himself. He could kick the bronzerider while he's still down there, but perhaps he's feeling guilty over those earlier words. He straightens his shirt, smoothes his pants, gives N'rov a glance and then storms out of the council room with nothing more to say. In the days (and likely sevens) that follow, E'dre will maintain an air of professionalism that some of the wing - like Cece and Y'ral - would find suspect when he speaks to N'rov but no one else may be the wiser to the tension between the Acting Weyrleader and his wingsecond. |
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