[Log] A Lady's Worries
Who: N'thei, Tiriana, Whitchek
When: Day 18, Month 8, Turn 19
Where: Lakeshore, High Reaches Weyr
What: N'thei and Whitchek can just go die.
Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.
A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.
The sun is high in the sky and there is not a cloud in sight. There's a breeze that tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
Contents:
Whitchek
Wyaeth
N'thei
Obvious exits:
Diving Cliff Lake Bowl
Two figures on the shore, and one of them is bleeding. One guess which one it is. For a moment, Whitchek is very intent on the bit of metal and enamel in his hand, then he opens his mouth and tries to force it back into place. Doesn't work. Spits it out again, pokes at it a bit, tries it again. That time, it stays. "I'm not wrong," he says, somewhat clearer. "Would, but I'm not wrong. You got some idea you're entitled to something you're not. Can hit me but it don't change anything." He wrenches his mouth around a little bit and spits blood again. "Think you mucked up my partial," he says sourly.
"Entitled to some fucking respect, that's what I'm entitled to." N'thei could offer the rag he was using to Whitchek. Could, but doesn't, instead shoving it back in his pocket to add with lasting belligerence, "Damn toothless hillbilly. Best you learn some things, boy." That being the closest he has to a paternal tone, let's all take a moment to be grateful that he has never yet managed to procreate. "Like when to keep your trap shut."
There's blood? Maybe it's Tiriana's sixth sense for punching that draws her over to the boys. Or maybe it's just Iovniath's prodding: the egg-heavy gold, in the middle of a bath (and much complaining by her rider), is certainly not ignorant of the trouble. In either case, here comes Tiriana to butt into the middle of things, stomping--well, sloshing in the water, anyway--as she advances on the pair. "What the hell?" she demands, in lieu of 'hi.'
"Why? What'd you ever do to deserve it?" Whitchek asks N'thei, obviously not having learned the bit about shutting his trap. But it's a less confrontational tone, now. "You show me something besides the dragon, you give me some reason and I will." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve again and manages, despite the still-bleeding lip, to nod politely to the Weyrwoman. "Morning," he says to her.
N'thei's utterance of, "Piss and blood," couples with the sudden, decisive turn of his shoulders away from Tiriana's advance toward the stuff left in Wyaeth's wake-- oil and rags and the like. He has not spent four months (granted, two of them off sulking at Benden) studiously avoiding the goldrider's presence to accept her interjection gracefully. Whatever he's done, or hasn't done, to merit Whitchek's respect will just have to wait. "Don't say 'what the hell' like it's not obvious what we're doing here," he answers testily.
Whitchek's retorts have Tiriana shooting a narrow-eyed look his way, but no repimands on that end; tacit agreement, maybe. Or maybe N'thei's just a much bigger target in so many ways. She looks at the resident only a moment before turning back to him. She'd probably be preening he was so unthrilled to see her, any other time. This time? "Fine, then," she snaps at him. "Why the hell. Is that better?
Ooh, ooh. There's a good answer for that one. "Told him to do it," offers Whitchek mildly to the Weyrwoman. Which is, in fact, even the truth for the most part. "S'okay." The lack of response on her part towards his mouthiness is a little vindicating, but at the same time, some things are just not other people's business where he comes from. He touches his broken lip and eyes the stain on his fingertips. "I'm fine."
N'thei ought to just get it tattooed on his forehead. "Not your business. Madam Weyrwoman." That last tossed on there with a glance thrown toward Whitchek. See? Respect. Though he's mildly annoyed that the boy goes on to answer the question, his nose twitching in a flare of frustration. Crouching, he collects his things, shaking sand out of the rag he tossed aside a while back.
For that, both men get positively snakey looks. "It's my Weyr. I'm the damn Weyrwoman," she points out then, crossing her arms over her chest. "That means it's /all/ my business, what my people are doing to each other. There's five other Weyrs' worth of people to hit, and that's just on this continent." Because who cares about diplomatic relations?
"No offense, ma'am," offers Whitchek, "but there are some things a lady shouldn't worry about." Whether or not a Weyrwoman constitutes a lady in the original context in which Whit learned this truism is, of course, debatable. "No harm done." He casts a glance at N'thei. "Had worse." And may, at this rate, yet.
Pro-tip: Guys like N'thei would pay /way/ more attention to girls like Tiriana if they weren't crossing their arms over their chests. He looks up at her for a second, crestfallen by this new posture, then straightens in such a way as to make a point. A point that he does not deem to share with the entire lakeshore, as he comes over like he'll just briefly cuff her elbow and issue a low remark. He mutters to Tiriana, "... may... are." Yes, he tries to keep his hypocrisy largely on the down-low. Pail clanking at the ends of his fingers, he echoes, "There, madam, is a fine answer. Some things a lady shouldn't worry about." To Whitchek's credit, the remark leaves him smirking.
You sense: Pro-tip: Guys like N'thei would pay /way/ more attention to girls like Tiriana if they weren't crossing their arms over their chests. He looks up at her for a second, crestfallen by this new posture, then straightens in such a way as to make a point. A point that he does not deem to share with the entire lakeshore, as he comes over like he'll just briefly cuff her elbow and issue a low remark. "You may be the Weyrwoman, love, but I'm still bigger than you are." Yes, he tries to keep his hypocrisy largely on the down-low. Pail clanking at the ends of his fingers, he echoes, "There, madam, is a fine answer. Some things a lady shouldn't worry about." To Whitchek's credit, the remark leaves him smirking.
There are a lot of things Tiriana could say, to both of them. She looks like she really wants to, drawing sharply away from N'thei when he gets close to her, and glowering at both of them. Finally, all she says is a cold, "I hope you kill each other." And she's turning away then, back toward her own dragon.
Whitchek's brows climb at that part. "Wasn't planning on it," he offers after Tiriana. Murder is very high on his "things that moral people don't do" list. Not the highest thing on the list, but it's pretty far up there. Being murdered isn't on the list, but it's still not something he'd call a hobby. "Why're you smirking?" he demands of N'thei, then. The lady business was meant to be serious, after all.
For all he was not happy to see her, N'thei ought to be plenty glad to let Tiriana go wandering off. But it's a tragic little, "Don't leave all mad, love. Stay and give us a piece of your mind." Also, something nicer to look at that toothless bumpkins! "Because I can, boy," he answers with a mind-your-own-business look cast at Whitchek.
Tiriana does not stop, especially when asked like that. Instead-- "Fuck you." Ever eloquent, she even has a little gesture to accompany that sentiment, just in case Whitchek really thought she deserved that lady title.
Well, great. Whitchek looks after the Weyrwoman a little aghast. Very aghast. Then he coughs a little. "Well," he says, looking back at the bronzerider with a somewhat renewed puzzlement. "Are you two, uh--" Pause. "Never mind." Which may be less discretion than a realization that if the Tiriana behaves this way routinely, he just doesn't want to know.
"Don't make offers you don't intend to keep," is the call that chases Tiriana on her way, with N'thei cupping one hand halfway around the corner of his mouth. Which maybe answers the are-you-two-uh question? Answer being, 'not for lack of trying?' Albeit one-sided.
When: Day 18, Month 8, Turn 19
Where: Lakeshore, High Reaches Weyr
What: N'thei and Whitchek can just go die.
Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.
A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.
The sun is high in the sky and there is not a cloud in sight. There's a breeze that tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
Contents:
Whitchek
Wyaeth
N'thei
Obvious exits:
Diving Cliff Lake Bowl
Two figures on the shore, and one of them is bleeding. One guess which one it is. For a moment, Whitchek is very intent on the bit of metal and enamel in his hand, then he opens his mouth and tries to force it back into place. Doesn't work. Spits it out again, pokes at it a bit, tries it again. That time, it stays. "I'm not wrong," he says, somewhat clearer. "Would, but I'm not wrong. You got some idea you're entitled to something you're not. Can hit me but it don't change anything." He wrenches his mouth around a little bit and spits blood again. "Think you mucked up my partial," he says sourly.
"Entitled to some fucking respect, that's what I'm entitled to." N'thei could offer the rag he was using to Whitchek. Could, but doesn't, instead shoving it back in his pocket to add with lasting belligerence, "Damn toothless hillbilly. Best you learn some things, boy." That being the closest he has to a paternal tone, let's all take a moment to be grateful that he has never yet managed to procreate. "Like when to keep your trap shut."
There's blood? Maybe it's Tiriana's sixth sense for punching that draws her over to the boys. Or maybe it's just Iovniath's prodding: the egg-heavy gold, in the middle of a bath (and much complaining by her rider), is certainly not ignorant of the trouble. In either case, here comes Tiriana to butt into the middle of things, stomping--well, sloshing in the water, anyway--as she advances on the pair. "What the hell?" she demands, in lieu of 'hi.'
"Why? What'd you ever do to deserve it?" Whitchek asks N'thei, obviously not having learned the bit about shutting his trap. But it's a less confrontational tone, now. "You show me something besides the dragon, you give me some reason and I will." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve again and manages, despite the still-bleeding lip, to nod politely to the Weyrwoman. "Morning," he says to her.
N'thei's utterance of, "Piss and blood," couples with the sudden, decisive turn of his shoulders away from Tiriana's advance toward the stuff left in Wyaeth's wake-- oil and rags and the like. He has not spent four months (granted, two of them off sulking at Benden) studiously avoiding the goldrider's presence to accept her interjection gracefully. Whatever he's done, or hasn't done, to merit Whitchek's respect will just have to wait. "Don't say 'what the hell' like it's not obvious what we're doing here," he answers testily.
Whitchek's retorts have Tiriana shooting a narrow-eyed look his way, but no repimands on that end; tacit agreement, maybe. Or maybe N'thei's just a much bigger target in so many ways. She looks at the resident only a moment before turning back to him. She'd probably be preening he was so unthrilled to see her, any other time. This time? "Fine, then," she snaps at him. "Why the hell. Is that better?
Ooh, ooh. There's a good answer for that one. "Told him to do it," offers Whitchek mildly to the Weyrwoman. Which is, in fact, even the truth for the most part. "S'okay." The lack of response on her part towards his mouthiness is a little vindicating, but at the same time, some things are just not other people's business where he comes from. He touches his broken lip and eyes the stain on his fingertips. "I'm fine."
N'thei ought to just get it tattooed on his forehead. "Not your business. Madam Weyrwoman." That last tossed on there with a glance thrown toward Whitchek. See? Respect. Though he's mildly annoyed that the boy goes on to answer the question, his nose twitching in a flare of frustration. Crouching, he collects his things, shaking sand out of the rag he tossed aside a while back.
For that, both men get positively snakey looks. "It's my Weyr. I'm the damn Weyrwoman," she points out then, crossing her arms over her chest. "That means it's /all/ my business, what my people are doing to each other. There's five other Weyrs' worth of people to hit, and that's just on this continent." Because who cares about diplomatic relations?
"No offense, ma'am," offers Whitchek, "but there are some things a lady shouldn't worry about." Whether or not a Weyrwoman constitutes a lady in the original context in which Whit learned this truism is, of course, debatable. "No harm done." He casts a glance at N'thei. "Had worse." And may, at this rate, yet.
Pro-tip: Guys like N'thei would pay /way/ more attention to girls like Tiriana if they weren't crossing their arms over their chests. He looks up at her for a second, crestfallen by this new posture, then straightens in such a way as to make a point. A point that he does not deem to share with the entire lakeshore, as he comes over like he'll just briefly cuff her elbow and issue a low remark. He mutters to Tiriana, "... may... are." Yes, he tries to keep his hypocrisy largely on the down-low. Pail clanking at the ends of his fingers, he echoes, "There, madam, is a fine answer. Some things a lady shouldn't worry about." To Whitchek's credit, the remark leaves him smirking.
You sense: Pro-tip: Guys like N'thei would pay /way/ more attention to girls like Tiriana if they weren't crossing their arms over their chests. He looks up at her for a second, crestfallen by this new posture, then straightens in such a way as to make a point. A point that he does not deem to share with the entire lakeshore, as he comes over like he'll just briefly cuff her elbow and issue a low remark. "You may be the Weyrwoman, love, but I'm still bigger than you are." Yes, he tries to keep his hypocrisy largely on the down-low. Pail clanking at the ends of his fingers, he echoes, "There, madam, is a fine answer. Some things a lady shouldn't worry about." To Whitchek's credit, the remark leaves him smirking.
There are a lot of things Tiriana could say, to both of them. She looks like she really wants to, drawing sharply away from N'thei when he gets close to her, and glowering at both of them. Finally, all she says is a cold, "I hope you kill each other." And she's turning away then, back toward her own dragon.
Whitchek's brows climb at that part. "Wasn't planning on it," he offers after Tiriana. Murder is very high on his "things that moral people don't do" list. Not the highest thing on the list, but it's pretty far up there. Being murdered isn't on the list, but it's still not something he'd call a hobby. "Why're you smirking?" he demands of N'thei, then. The lady business was meant to be serious, after all.
For all he was not happy to see her, N'thei ought to be plenty glad to let Tiriana go wandering off. But it's a tragic little, "Don't leave all mad, love. Stay and give us a piece of your mind." Also, something nicer to look at that toothless bumpkins! "Because I can, boy," he answers with a mind-your-own-business look cast at Whitchek.
Tiriana does not stop, especially when asked like that. Instead-- "Fuck you." Ever eloquent, she even has a little gesture to accompany that sentiment, just in case Whitchek really thought she deserved that lady title.
Well, great. Whitchek looks after the Weyrwoman a little aghast. Very aghast. Then he coughs a little. "Well," he says, looking back at the bronzerider with a somewhat renewed puzzlement. "Are you two, uh--" Pause. "Never mind." Which may be less discretion than a realization that if the Tiriana behaves this way routinely, he just doesn't want to know.
"Don't make offers you don't intend to keep," is the call that chases Tiriana on her way, with N'thei cupping one hand halfway around the corner of his mouth. Which maybe answers the are-you-two-uh question? Answer being, 'not for lack of trying?' Albeit one-sided.