Story of my life. X'ndar and N'thei beat each other up.
RL Date: 11/16/07
IC Date: 3/14/14
This takes place at the Lava Lounge at South Boll.
Dragon> Wyaeth senses that Valketh has worked his way through the various networks at his disposal, his mind now making connection that comes swelling in like the rise of humidity of his birth continent, << The Weyrlingmaster wishes yours to meet him here. >> By the very firmness of this delivery he's expecting an affirmative answer, for he attaches an image of a small cave tavern set amongst lush jungles.
Wyaeth> Valketh senses that Wyaeth answers fast and loud, a shotgun-blast complete with the feel of gunpowder and buckshot; << What's your point? >> Immediately after this blunt demand, there's a long hot lull, staid as high noon, tepid as a mosquito pond. << A'ight. N'thei says we're coming, but give us a while, hoss. >>
Dragon> Wyaeth senses that Valketh is still in the expanding heat, he feels no need to reply more then << We wait. >> once affirmation is obtained.
X'ndar is already sprawled out on a chair, back leaned up against a wall and legs stretched out under a table. Keeping watch under hooded lids over those that come and go, the man could even appear to be taking a siesta in the balmy Bollian afternoon, if not for the location of cave. With a full glass of brandy before him, another empty glass placed at the seating opposite him and a bottle in between, the Telgari Weyrlingmaster bides his time. At ease in this setting, his mouth twists wryly for the flirtatious pouting that's coming off of a barmaid but she's offered no more than that.
No lie. When Wyaeth says a while, he means a solid hour before his rangy form breaks from *between*, before he begins a teetery glide down and down and down to land on Boll's beach. A few minutes later, his rider clomps in from the ladder, his fingers flying from his collar to loosen his shirt against a tropical winter. "What are the odds you folks keep ice around here?" he inquires toward the bar straightaway, as yet careless of his host-of-sorts.
Recognition flickers, X'ndar's mouth set to creasing into a smirk when the Reachain bronzerider finally makes his appearance, looking a tad discomforted by the climes. Eyes track his progress over to the bar, but as yet he doesn't announce his presence. The lazy sprawl is still there, but watchfulness has ignited the Telgari's eyes. So called guest having arrived, he leans forward and begins to fill the other glass - silent.
It takes a drink, with N'thei knocking it back and breathing out across the harsh taste in his tongue, before the Reaches rider bothers to survey his surroundings. His glass refilled, N'thei leans an elbow against the bar with his back primarily to it, and a look finds its way around the room, finally to land on X'ndar. Nothing like recognition crosses his face, but the knot probably gives it all away; "You beckoned, neh?"
X'ndar's mouth curls around smug satisfaction, an indolent look settling on N'thei, mouth working back to a line of impassive worth. X'ndar neither stands to greet the younger man, nor does he move from his lounge, simply drawling out in dryness, "So ya came. Give ya points fa that." The glass untouched until now is swiftly brought to his lips and half drained in one movement as his gaze sizes the other up, "Reckon that bar can keep itself up." the seating opposite gestured toward with the glass holding hand.
"Reckon that table can too." N'thei says it with a smile, but it's a particular kind of smile, one that acknowledges the offer but answers to no one. "I don't imagine that you invited me to have drinks, sir, if you'll pardon the assumption. So." He's set to sipping now, a quick and congenial can-I-help-you look falling naturally into place behind his smile. "You're here to collect an apology or...?"
He's not moving yet either. Jaw setting for N'thei's words, smoothes into the most congenial of empty smiles. X'ndar's baritone which carries bland undertones at first, shifts through the words incrementally, "Wanted ta see the kind o' man again, that picks on weyrlin's. Refresh ma memory, so ta speak." an outright air of derision appearing at the end as the Weyrlingmaster puts his reasons for calling this meet, out there. Another 'casual as you please' swallow taken of the brandy, lips drawing back in burning appreciation for the liquid.
N'thei ahhhs in bland enlightenment, nods slowly as if the words need a little time to sink in; perhaps he's just stupid? "Right. I forgot all about how I 'picked' on the poor little lads. Bruised up pretty good, were they? Or-- no, that's right. I did keep my fists to myself after all. Huh." Puzzling over this, or so it would seem, he clinks around the ice in his glass, like the answers to this particular riddle are buried down there underneath it. Looking up to X'ndar again; "So you've seen. What do you /want/?" As though he has so many demands on his time.
Wide shoulders shift with indifference, X'ndar's voice holding traces of challenge. "Look here lad." eyes dropping off the younger rider and onto a passing beauty, "Ya got ta know which fights ta pick ta impress the ladies. Warrin' words with weyrlin's ain't gonna cut it." smirk. Draining his glass and leaning forward the Telgari Weyrlingmaster takes up the other opposite him. Continuing to speak, "Figured we could sort this out like men. Diplomatic like." lines creasing down the sides of a mouth that twists sardonically. "Or are kids more ya style? Less chance o' losin' face, yeah?" definite taunt coming through in the rich voice that's dropped down a notch.
N'thei scratches between his eyebrows with his thumbnail, his boredom palpable, feigned maybe. "You're trying to get a rise out of me? Or you just have nothing better to do?" He reaches with his left hand across his body and puts the glass down hard on the bar next to his right elbow, exhales a hard-put sigh. "I suppose we'll have to take this outside then. You ought to know that my knuckles bleed like the devil, so I hope you aren't averse to stains."
A mock sigh of resignation comes off X'ndar as he unfolds himself to heft to his feet, drawing to his full height but still leaving him four inches off the mark of the Reachian's. "Ya not goin' ta make this easy are ya." the last of the brandy downed with an exhale of burn, glass thunking to table. Hands flexing at his sides, N'thei's fixed with an intent calculating look, "It be simple like. Leave ma kids alone an' I'll leave ya hide in one piece." in a flat tone of warning. Older bull looking set to lock horns with the younger, much? That he's a fair few turns older than the younger, taller bronzerider, really hasn't given the Weyrlingmaster much pause for thought, a threatening step N'thei's way taken. Mouth drawing back over teeth in a sneer to stains being of any concern to the brownrider.
N'thei brushes off his hands on the front of his pants, takes his time in straightening up to find his own height. When he's there, his posture weary and unexaggerated, he makes sure to look down at X'ndar, for all that it's only four inches; "You're not in much position to make threats, sir." He tosses his head toward the ladder, to the exit, and suggests almost pleasantly, "After you? I never cared much for breaking chairs over people's heads and the like." The comment is punctuated by the audible crack of his knuckles when he laces his fingers and stretches his palms outward, pop pop pop.
X'ndar's not about to compensate for the height difference, the antagonistic look he slides up that short distance to N'thei comes from under lowered lids. Neck cracking first to one side then the other, the brownrider snorts at threats perceived or made, "Ya talk the talk, let's be seein' iffen ya walk the walk too, son." A curt nod of head, rolling sleeves up as swift, decided steps carry him straight over to the ladder. Just the one glance cast backward, not wishing the help of boot to back down them, and he's waiting fists to hips bottomside.
The thought likely crosses N'thei's mind, since there's a brief scrape of heels to floor, but he keeps his feet from quickening X'ndar's descent. Clamoring down after him, graceless bulk clattering to the floor, he waves a hand along the tunnel to indicate the broader space up ahead; "Shouldn't you be more concerned with whether or not I punch the punch, or some other clever cliche? --Better suited to fisticuffs than some little piss-room at the foot of a ladder." He draws up his own sleeves now, an odd mix of menace and resignation in his stance.
He'd waited just long enough for N'thei's boots to hit rock and X'ndar's off again down the tunnel. Loping strides carrying him out into the jungle and on past his brown that swings a curious look after his rider, then one over to the Reachian bronze settled nearby. Valketh certainly wasn't going to interfere. Wide shoulders stretch and roll, "Keep talkin' Reaches. Makes that mouth o' yours easier more pleasure ta find." The fine white sands of a stretch of isolated beach finally halts the Telgari's steps, swinging on heel he turns back to face N'thei with the relish of fight glowing in his eyes.
N'thei trails along behind at a lesser pace, his feet dragged across stone and then soil and finally sand, the last of which turns his frown a shade darker. "Just what I wanted," he mutters, his foot picked up so sand can spill off the toes except where it sticks to his laces, damn it. "I aim to please, sir." With a bright smile, he shakes out his hands and draws them up to half-cover his chin, braced for impact. To his credit, he doesn't just sucker-punch the slighter man.
X'ndar had chosen this particular ecological area on the premise that it would be to his advantage given the continent of his former residence. A smirk appearing at the bronzerider's obvious disgruntlement for it, "Scared o' sand in ya eye?" Prowling around N'thei in a tight circle, body kept loose, senses heightened; X'ndar keeps a narrowed watch on the other man, dry amusement shown for the stance the other takes. Those last words of the other have a hand lifting and fingers flicking toward himself twice in a beckoning gesture, the offer to throw the first punch arrogantly made. He'd duck it, yeah?
"My socks actually." N'thei shrugs a beefy shoulder sadly, soon to be followed by a resolute shake of his head. He turns in a slow circle, just his feet shuffled across the sand, very little movement involved except to keep his eyes on X'ndar. There is just no way he's going to throw a punch at X'ndar, no doubt a twisted sense of fair-play, a peace-pact to appease the pick-on-someone-your-own-size crowd.
Steps halt, back deliberately turned to N'thei and X'ndar's casts a look over his shoulder as the bronzerider still refuses to step up to the plate, baritone carrying derision and easy self-deprecation, "Scared o' hittin' an old man, or is it the knot that worries ya laddie?" hand to shoulder and already removing the named item to toss it out onto the sand. Then he steps back in and reaches to tap a condescendingly light mark to the Reachian's jaw if he doesn't draw back quick enough, "S'okay son, jus' say ya sorry an' ya realize the errors o' ya ways an' we call it quits, yeah?" mocking.
N'thei doesn't draw back, doesn't even try to. Instead, banter aside, what he does is wait until X'ndar comes in arm's reach and puts the longer length of his arms to suit. One hand dropped, he reaches to snatch the other man by his collar, to grab a big handful of the front of his shirt. Gruff, eyes lit with irritation from the teased jab; "Quit fucking around. You want a piece, take it." With the intent to shove him clear afterward, no damage done either way.
That's exactly what X'ndar had wanted, N'thei rankled. He doesn't fight against the hand to his collar just yet, rough taunt emerging, "Ya goin' ta go runnin' ta ya Weyrwoman when I knock ya flat?" The brownrider doesn't wait for a reply, one hand shoves hard against the bronzerider's chest to break the grip and the other bunches a shot at his gut, "Don' be playin' games with me Reaches. Fight like a man, not the piss-ant that taunts weyrlin's." snarling out low.
N'thei takes the blow hard in the stomach and lashes out in return, a hair-trigger temper. His is not a fist to trifle with, big and mean and squared for X'ndar's jaw. "You talk--" He shoves with both hands, breath grated against a hard-hit gut. "You talk too much." He's not a coordinated fighter, not a stick-and-move, just brute strength.
A grunt issues from the Weyrlingmaster as the Reachian rider's heavy swing finds its target, sending him staggering backward a step, lower lip splitting open and blood trickling down his chin. That's gotta hurt. Instead of inciting further ire, a complimentary light for his opponent fires the brownrider's eyes as his tongue tests the cut, his head shaking to clear it, "That the best ya got younglin'?" deprecating words designed to taunt further. Swifter then N'thei is likely expecting from X'ndar, he recovers well enough to shoot out a high right hook, aiming his fist for the younger man's own head. There's going to be some explaining to do later on the cuts and bruises being traded between the two no doubt.
N'thei shakes out his fist, which indeed breaks at the knuckle with a slow trickle of blood, counting on throwing X'ndar far enough to risk his guard. As such, he gets clocked square across the apple of his cheek, just high enough to puff his eye almost instantly. Profanity spills as quick as blood; after he whips his head around from the backlash, he drops his shoulder and plows toward X'ndar, as apt to wind up on his ass as to body-check the brownrider.
X'ndar's breath is forced out in a loud 'whoosh' when his diaphragm is assaulted by N'thei's bulk. Thrown back by the momentum, he makes a grab at the brownrider to take him down with him. Stunned momentarily lip starting to swell and trickling blood into his mouth. Pain wracked eyes water and flick a murderous look onto the bronzerider. Coughing and dry heaving, with a twist of head the mouthful of blood is spat out onto the sand. Battered ribs stabbing painfully under the heavier man a muted growl of discomfort draws forth, "Shit! I'ma...gonna kick ya ass fa that!" As if that's not what they'd already been doing to each other the last few rounds. Rolling away from the Reachian, an elbow aims at his lower side, a ploy for the Weyrlingmaster to be able to find his footing again.
Easy to take down, N'thei tumbles right down with X'ndar, wordless with tattered breaths shredded out of him. The elbow hits him in the sternum, a blow that waters eyes undoubtedly seeing stars, his gasp for air hoarse and fruitless. A flailing hand scrabbles toward X'ndar while the brownrider pulls away, bloodied fingers finding purchase on his belt to jerk him back down to the sand; it's going to take N'thei a while to get to his feet, so he's doing what he can to delay X'ndar's advantage there.
What sounds remarkably like broken chuckling appears through ragged breathing and coughs. N'thei yanking him back by the belt has his head hitting hard back into the sand, stunning him again for moment. His shirt spattered with both his blood and that of the others. Something's changed along the way of trading punches and insults. The rankling that had fuelled the Weyrlingmaster initially has been replaced with purely savoring the scrap with the Reachian. Can't deny, the older man has fortitude, either that or he's just pigheaded enough not to back down. Twisting in the grip back to the bronzerider, X'ndar tries to break free by collecting a fist to aim a badly placed shot at the other's head once again. Likely to no avail given the angle.
The punch, bad aim or not, is enough to glance across the bridge of N'thei's nose, to upset his already hampered vision, not to mention start a trickle of blood there too. He reels back, catches a handful of sand to toss in X'ndar's general direction, the movement carried through so he rolls away from the brownrider. Still blow-for-blow, he scrabbles backward, tries to dig his heels into the sand to put enough distance that he might have a chance to get to his feet. But he moves slow, slower now that he's bleeding and black-eyed and winded.
Somewhere along the line, X'ndar's brow had connected with N'thei. Likely his shoulder in that backward fall, and now he's literally have sand thrown in his face too to stick into cuts that drip blood. It has the desired effect, tiring and peppered with sand, deep laughter still vibrating in his chest painfully, X'ndar rolls over onto his knees, with a low-key groan of beat-up body. It takes a while of resting there on hands and knees with his head bowed trying to steady heavy breathing and re-orientate, but with some effort he's upright once again albeit it with an unsteady sway to his stance. Offering a knuckle bruised hand down to N'thei, "C'mon buy ya a drink, Reaches." No craftiness sits behind the brownrider's eyes, this offer is genuine. "Faranth..." pause to hawk more blood out onto the sand, the other hand touching his brow, "..ya fight a good fight bronzerider." He'd grin if not for the painful pull of lip that would mean. That show of end of play, may or not be his undoing, depending on where N'thei's mind sat at that moment.
"Fuck your drink." N'thei foregoes the kiss-and-make-up. He shakes sand off his fingers, as much of it as he can, and looks up at the brownrider with the malice he lacked when this whole debacle began. "Unless it comes with an apology from your Weyrleader, you can stick that drink where the sun doesn't shine." He scrubs the clean inside of his wrist below his nostril, still failing to to get to his feet while he nurses his hurts. "But I do hope you're satisfied, old man."
X'ndar's eyes narrow much as they can onto N'thei, "Ya goin' ta brin' them into this?" wide shoulders twitch in a show of indifference, "Expected more from a man. Shoulda known a Reaches rider would go cryin' ta his mama." He's hurting and that's likely showing in the sudden caustic return from perhaps ill placed humor. "Yeah, leave ma weyrlin's the fuck alone." shaking the once proffered hand out as knuckles throb. A shuffling step backward taken that scoops sand in its path, "Sore loser." spat out in derision.
N'thei answers only with a profane one-fingered gesture, held up just long enough to make the point before his much-abused hand drops back to the sand to carry his weight. Still sitting, bruises puffing up nicely, he chases a baleful but wearied look to Telgar's Weyrlingmaster; at least he still has his (tattered, bleeding, bruised, sandy, scraped, stained, sad) pride.
Hands that had dangled tiredly at X'ndar's sides, come outward in spreading so-be-it gesture at that one fingered salute from N'thei. Eyes still fixed on the bronzerider, another step carries him backward, not about to turn his back should the other decide to bum rush him with a sucker attack from behind. "Don' be an ass man, take the drink." last offered made and the Weyrlingmaster does finally turn. Hands move to pocket, then with a flinch fall back to his sides. Shirt torn and bloodied, brow and lip swollen and more sand packed into his hair and breeches then he cared to think about, the Telgari slowly makes his way back up the beach toward his dragon. Shoulders bowed, and a small limp favoring a leg muscle wrenched in the tussle.
N'thei can only be what he is, and-- at times, like all men, especially all men that perceive their pride to have been wounded-- he is an ass. He stays put, uses the time to sit in the sand with his legs pushed out in front of him and his weight rested on his palms,, to try very hard to wrestle up the energy to get back to his feet. He'll be here a while yet.
IC Date: 3/14/14
This takes place at the Lava Lounge at South Boll.
Dragon> Wyaeth senses that Valketh has worked his way through the various networks at his disposal, his mind now making connection that comes swelling in like the rise of humidity of his birth continent, << The Weyrlingmaster wishes yours to meet him here. >> By the very firmness of this delivery he's expecting an affirmative answer, for he attaches an image of a small cave tavern set amongst lush jungles.
Wyaeth> Valketh senses that Wyaeth answers fast and loud, a shotgun-blast complete with the feel of gunpowder and buckshot; << What's your point? >> Immediately after this blunt demand, there's a long hot lull, staid as high noon, tepid as a mosquito pond. << A'ight. N'thei says we're coming, but give us a while, hoss. >>
Dragon> Wyaeth senses that Valketh is still in the expanding heat, he feels no need to reply more then << We wait. >> once affirmation is obtained.
X'ndar is already sprawled out on a chair, back leaned up against a wall and legs stretched out under a table. Keeping watch under hooded lids over those that come and go, the man could even appear to be taking a siesta in the balmy Bollian afternoon, if not for the location of cave. With a full glass of brandy before him, another empty glass placed at the seating opposite him and a bottle in between, the Telgari Weyrlingmaster bides his time. At ease in this setting, his mouth twists wryly for the flirtatious pouting that's coming off of a barmaid but she's offered no more than that.
No lie. When Wyaeth says a while, he means a solid hour before his rangy form breaks from *between*, before he begins a teetery glide down and down and down to land on Boll's beach. A few minutes later, his rider clomps in from the ladder, his fingers flying from his collar to loosen his shirt against a tropical winter. "What are the odds you folks keep ice around here?" he inquires toward the bar straightaway, as yet careless of his host-of-sorts.
Recognition flickers, X'ndar's mouth set to creasing into a smirk when the Reachain bronzerider finally makes his appearance, looking a tad discomforted by the climes. Eyes track his progress over to the bar, but as yet he doesn't announce his presence. The lazy sprawl is still there, but watchfulness has ignited the Telgari's eyes. So called guest having arrived, he leans forward and begins to fill the other glass - silent.
It takes a drink, with N'thei knocking it back and breathing out across the harsh taste in his tongue, before the Reaches rider bothers to survey his surroundings. His glass refilled, N'thei leans an elbow against the bar with his back primarily to it, and a look finds its way around the room, finally to land on X'ndar. Nothing like recognition crosses his face, but the knot probably gives it all away; "You beckoned, neh?"
X'ndar's mouth curls around smug satisfaction, an indolent look settling on N'thei, mouth working back to a line of impassive worth. X'ndar neither stands to greet the younger man, nor does he move from his lounge, simply drawling out in dryness, "So ya came. Give ya points fa that." The glass untouched until now is swiftly brought to his lips and half drained in one movement as his gaze sizes the other up, "Reckon that bar can keep itself up." the seating opposite gestured toward with the glass holding hand.
"Reckon that table can too." N'thei says it with a smile, but it's a particular kind of smile, one that acknowledges the offer but answers to no one. "I don't imagine that you invited me to have drinks, sir, if you'll pardon the assumption. So." He's set to sipping now, a quick and congenial can-I-help-you look falling naturally into place behind his smile. "You're here to collect an apology or...?"
He's not moving yet either. Jaw setting for N'thei's words, smoothes into the most congenial of empty smiles. X'ndar's baritone which carries bland undertones at first, shifts through the words incrementally, "Wanted ta see the kind o' man again, that picks on weyrlin's. Refresh ma memory, so ta speak." an outright air of derision appearing at the end as the Weyrlingmaster puts his reasons for calling this meet, out there. Another 'casual as you please' swallow taken of the brandy, lips drawing back in burning appreciation for the liquid.
N'thei ahhhs in bland enlightenment, nods slowly as if the words need a little time to sink in; perhaps he's just stupid? "Right. I forgot all about how I 'picked' on the poor little lads. Bruised up pretty good, were they? Or-- no, that's right. I did keep my fists to myself after all. Huh." Puzzling over this, or so it would seem, he clinks around the ice in his glass, like the answers to this particular riddle are buried down there underneath it. Looking up to X'ndar again; "So you've seen. What do you /want/?" As though he has so many demands on his time.
Wide shoulders shift with indifference, X'ndar's voice holding traces of challenge. "Look here lad." eyes dropping off the younger rider and onto a passing beauty, "Ya got ta know which fights ta pick ta impress the ladies. Warrin' words with weyrlin's ain't gonna cut it." smirk. Draining his glass and leaning forward the Telgari Weyrlingmaster takes up the other opposite him. Continuing to speak, "Figured we could sort this out like men. Diplomatic like." lines creasing down the sides of a mouth that twists sardonically. "Or are kids more ya style? Less chance o' losin' face, yeah?" definite taunt coming through in the rich voice that's dropped down a notch.
N'thei scratches between his eyebrows with his thumbnail, his boredom palpable, feigned maybe. "You're trying to get a rise out of me? Or you just have nothing better to do?" He reaches with his left hand across his body and puts the glass down hard on the bar next to his right elbow, exhales a hard-put sigh. "I suppose we'll have to take this outside then. You ought to know that my knuckles bleed like the devil, so I hope you aren't averse to stains."
A mock sigh of resignation comes off X'ndar as he unfolds himself to heft to his feet, drawing to his full height but still leaving him four inches off the mark of the Reachian's. "Ya not goin' ta make this easy are ya." the last of the brandy downed with an exhale of burn, glass thunking to table. Hands flexing at his sides, N'thei's fixed with an intent calculating look, "It be simple like. Leave ma kids alone an' I'll leave ya hide in one piece." in a flat tone of warning. Older bull looking set to lock horns with the younger, much? That he's a fair few turns older than the younger, taller bronzerider, really hasn't given the Weyrlingmaster much pause for thought, a threatening step N'thei's way taken. Mouth drawing back over teeth in a sneer to stains being of any concern to the brownrider.
N'thei brushes off his hands on the front of his pants, takes his time in straightening up to find his own height. When he's there, his posture weary and unexaggerated, he makes sure to look down at X'ndar, for all that it's only four inches; "You're not in much position to make threats, sir." He tosses his head toward the ladder, to the exit, and suggests almost pleasantly, "After you? I never cared much for breaking chairs over people's heads and the like." The comment is punctuated by the audible crack of his knuckles when he laces his fingers and stretches his palms outward, pop pop pop.
X'ndar's not about to compensate for the height difference, the antagonistic look he slides up that short distance to N'thei comes from under lowered lids. Neck cracking first to one side then the other, the brownrider snorts at threats perceived or made, "Ya talk the talk, let's be seein' iffen ya walk the walk too, son." A curt nod of head, rolling sleeves up as swift, decided steps carry him straight over to the ladder. Just the one glance cast backward, not wishing the help of boot to back down them, and he's waiting fists to hips bottomside.
The thought likely crosses N'thei's mind, since there's a brief scrape of heels to floor, but he keeps his feet from quickening X'ndar's descent. Clamoring down after him, graceless bulk clattering to the floor, he waves a hand along the tunnel to indicate the broader space up ahead; "Shouldn't you be more concerned with whether or not I punch the punch, or some other clever cliche? --Better suited to fisticuffs than some little piss-room at the foot of a ladder." He draws up his own sleeves now, an odd mix of menace and resignation in his stance.
He'd waited just long enough for N'thei's boots to hit rock and X'ndar's off again down the tunnel. Loping strides carrying him out into the jungle and on past his brown that swings a curious look after his rider, then one over to the Reachian bronze settled nearby. Valketh certainly wasn't going to interfere. Wide shoulders stretch and roll, "Keep talkin' Reaches. Makes that mouth o' yours easier more pleasure ta find." The fine white sands of a stretch of isolated beach finally halts the Telgari's steps, swinging on heel he turns back to face N'thei with the relish of fight glowing in his eyes.
N'thei trails along behind at a lesser pace, his feet dragged across stone and then soil and finally sand, the last of which turns his frown a shade darker. "Just what I wanted," he mutters, his foot picked up so sand can spill off the toes except where it sticks to his laces, damn it. "I aim to please, sir." With a bright smile, he shakes out his hands and draws them up to half-cover his chin, braced for impact. To his credit, he doesn't just sucker-punch the slighter man.
X'ndar had chosen this particular ecological area on the premise that it would be to his advantage given the continent of his former residence. A smirk appearing at the bronzerider's obvious disgruntlement for it, "Scared o' sand in ya eye?" Prowling around N'thei in a tight circle, body kept loose, senses heightened; X'ndar keeps a narrowed watch on the other man, dry amusement shown for the stance the other takes. Those last words of the other have a hand lifting and fingers flicking toward himself twice in a beckoning gesture, the offer to throw the first punch arrogantly made. He'd duck it, yeah?
"My socks actually." N'thei shrugs a beefy shoulder sadly, soon to be followed by a resolute shake of his head. He turns in a slow circle, just his feet shuffled across the sand, very little movement involved except to keep his eyes on X'ndar. There is just no way he's going to throw a punch at X'ndar, no doubt a twisted sense of fair-play, a peace-pact to appease the pick-on-someone-your-own-size crowd.
Steps halt, back deliberately turned to N'thei and X'ndar's casts a look over his shoulder as the bronzerider still refuses to step up to the plate, baritone carrying derision and easy self-deprecation, "Scared o' hittin' an old man, or is it the knot that worries ya laddie?" hand to shoulder and already removing the named item to toss it out onto the sand. Then he steps back in and reaches to tap a condescendingly light mark to the Reachian's jaw if he doesn't draw back quick enough, "S'okay son, jus' say ya sorry an' ya realize the errors o' ya ways an' we call it quits, yeah?" mocking.
N'thei doesn't draw back, doesn't even try to. Instead, banter aside, what he does is wait until X'ndar comes in arm's reach and puts the longer length of his arms to suit. One hand dropped, he reaches to snatch the other man by his collar, to grab a big handful of the front of his shirt. Gruff, eyes lit with irritation from the teased jab; "Quit fucking around. You want a piece, take it." With the intent to shove him clear afterward, no damage done either way.
That's exactly what X'ndar had wanted, N'thei rankled. He doesn't fight against the hand to his collar just yet, rough taunt emerging, "Ya goin' ta go runnin' ta ya Weyrwoman when I knock ya flat?" The brownrider doesn't wait for a reply, one hand shoves hard against the bronzerider's chest to break the grip and the other bunches a shot at his gut, "Don' be playin' games with me Reaches. Fight like a man, not the piss-ant that taunts weyrlin's." snarling out low.
N'thei takes the blow hard in the stomach and lashes out in return, a hair-trigger temper. His is not a fist to trifle with, big and mean and squared for X'ndar's jaw. "You talk--" He shoves with both hands, breath grated against a hard-hit gut. "You talk too much." He's not a coordinated fighter, not a stick-and-move, just brute strength.
A grunt issues from the Weyrlingmaster as the Reachian rider's heavy swing finds its target, sending him staggering backward a step, lower lip splitting open and blood trickling down his chin. That's gotta hurt. Instead of inciting further ire, a complimentary light for his opponent fires the brownrider's eyes as his tongue tests the cut, his head shaking to clear it, "That the best ya got younglin'?" deprecating words designed to taunt further. Swifter then N'thei is likely expecting from X'ndar, he recovers well enough to shoot out a high right hook, aiming his fist for the younger man's own head. There's going to be some explaining to do later on the cuts and bruises being traded between the two no doubt.
N'thei shakes out his fist, which indeed breaks at the knuckle with a slow trickle of blood, counting on throwing X'ndar far enough to risk his guard. As such, he gets clocked square across the apple of his cheek, just high enough to puff his eye almost instantly. Profanity spills as quick as blood; after he whips his head around from the backlash, he drops his shoulder and plows toward X'ndar, as apt to wind up on his ass as to body-check the brownrider.
X'ndar's breath is forced out in a loud 'whoosh' when his diaphragm is assaulted by N'thei's bulk. Thrown back by the momentum, he makes a grab at the brownrider to take him down with him. Stunned momentarily lip starting to swell and trickling blood into his mouth. Pain wracked eyes water and flick a murderous look onto the bronzerider. Coughing and dry heaving, with a twist of head the mouthful of blood is spat out onto the sand. Battered ribs stabbing painfully under the heavier man a muted growl of discomfort draws forth, "Shit! I'ma...gonna kick ya ass fa that!" As if that's not what they'd already been doing to each other the last few rounds. Rolling away from the Reachian, an elbow aims at his lower side, a ploy for the Weyrlingmaster to be able to find his footing again.
Easy to take down, N'thei tumbles right down with X'ndar, wordless with tattered breaths shredded out of him. The elbow hits him in the sternum, a blow that waters eyes undoubtedly seeing stars, his gasp for air hoarse and fruitless. A flailing hand scrabbles toward X'ndar while the brownrider pulls away, bloodied fingers finding purchase on his belt to jerk him back down to the sand; it's going to take N'thei a while to get to his feet, so he's doing what he can to delay X'ndar's advantage there.
What sounds remarkably like broken chuckling appears through ragged breathing and coughs. N'thei yanking him back by the belt has his head hitting hard back into the sand, stunning him again for moment. His shirt spattered with both his blood and that of the others. Something's changed along the way of trading punches and insults. The rankling that had fuelled the Weyrlingmaster initially has been replaced with purely savoring the scrap with the Reachian. Can't deny, the older man has fortitude, either that or he's just pigheaded enough not to back down. Twisting in the grip back to the bronzerider, X'ndar tries to break free by collecting a fist to aim a badly placed shot at the other's head once again. Likely to no avail given the angle.
The punch, bad aim or not, is enough to glance across the bridge of N'thei's nose, to upset his already hampered vision, not to mention start a trickle of blood there too. He reels back, catches a handful of sand to toss in X'ndar's general direction, the movement carried through so he rolls away from the brownrider. Still blow-for-blow, he scrabbles backward, tries to dig his heels into the sand to put enough distance that he might have a chance to get to his feet. But he moves slow, slower now that he's bleeding and black-eyed and winded.
Somewhere along the line, X'ndar's brow had connected with N'thei. Likely his shoulder in that backward fall, and now he's literally have sand thrown in his face too to stick into cuts that drip blood. It has the desired effect, tiring and peppered with sand, deep laughter still vibrating in his chest painfully, X'ndar rolls over onto his knees, with a low-key groan of beat-up body. It takes a while of resting there on hands and knees with his head bowed trying to steady heavy breathing and re-orientate, but with some effort he's upright once again albeit it with an unsteady sway to his stance. Offering a knuckle bruised hand down to N'thei, "C'mon buy ya a drink, Reaches." No craftiness sits behind the brownrider's eyes, this offer is genuine. "Faranth..." pause to hawk more blood out onto the sand, the other hand touching his brow, "..ya fight a good fight bronzerider." He'd grin if not for the painful pull of lip that would mean. That show of end of play, may or not be his undoing, depending on where N'thei's mind sat at that moment.
"Fuck your drink." N'thei foregoes the kiss-and-make-up. He shakes sand off his fingers, as much of it as he can, and looks up at the brownrider with the malice he lacked when this whole debacle began. "Unless it comes with an apology from your Weyrleader, you can stick that drink where the sun doesn't shine." He scrubs the clean inside of his wrist below his nostril, still failing to to get to his feet while he nurses his hurts. "But I do hope you're satisfied, old man."
X'ndar's eyes narrow much as they can onto N'thei, "Ya goin' ta brin' them into this?" wide shoulders twitch in a show of indifference, "Expected more from a man. Shoulda known a Reaches rider would go cryin' ta his mama." He's hurting and that's likely showing in the sudden caustic return from perhaps ill placed humor. "Yeah, leave ma weyrlin's the fuck alone." shaking the once proffered hand out as knuckles throb. A shuffling step backward taken that scoops sand in its path, "Sore loser." spat out in derision.
N'thei answers only with a profane one-fingered gesture, held up just long enough to make the point before his much-abused hand drops back to the sand to carry his weight. Still sitting, bruises puffing up nicely, he chases a baleful but wearied look to Telgar's Weyrlingmaster; at least he still has his (tattered, bleeding, bruised, sandy, scraped, stained, sad) pride.
Hands that had dangled tiredly at X'ndar's sides, come outward in spreading so-be-it gesture at that one fingered salute from N'thei. Eyes still fixed on the bronzerider, another step carries him backward, not about to turn his back should the other decide to bum rush him with a sucker attack from behind. "Don' be an ass man, take the drink." last offered made and the Weyrlingmaster does finally turn. Hands move to pocket, then with a flinch fall back to his sides. Shirt torn and bloodied, brow and lip swollen and more sand packed into his hair and breeches then he cared to think about, the Telgari slowly makes his way back up the beach toward his dragon. Shoulders bowed, and a small limp favoring a leg muscle wrenched in the tussle.
N'thei can only be what he is, and-- at times, like all men, especially all men that perceive their pride to have been wounded-- he is an ass. He stays put, uses the time to sit in the sand with his legs pushed out in front of him and his weight rested on his palms,, to try very hard to wrestle up the energy to get back to his feet. He'll be here a while yet.