[Log] Throwing the Book at Candidates
Who: Ajatha, Betegal, Tiriana, Ulestien, Whitchek
When: Day 23, Month 9, Turn 19
Where: Candidate Barracks, High Reaches Weyr
What: Tiriana harasses the candidates, in varying degrees.
Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr
Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second.
Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.
Contents:
Ulestien
Whitchek
Ajatha
Carobet
Betegal
Obvious exits:
Common Room
Evening free time and random folks scattered around the barracks doing lots of random things. One of them is Whitchek, who has been for days now maddening those near his bunk with his whistling, is... whistling again, and stringing laces through a boot as he does so. It's earning him a lot of glares from the girl a bunk over. The whistling, probably, not the boot.
Weyrwoman in the house! Bad news travels fast, as they say, and little faster than this: as soon as Tiriana takes the turn toward the candidate barracks, one of the youngest and smallest candidates is squealing ahead of her to warn everybody. Rather than be offended by her infamy, however, Tiriana only smirks and pauses in the doorway, silhouetted for effect.
Betegal is laying on his bed, belly up, with his pillow over his head and his arm over the pillow to hold it firmly in place to drown out both light and sound with minimal success. The younger candidates avoid his bed. He's probably growled at them already, repeatedly, for disturbing him in times like these.
Ulestien is sitting on his bunk. Reading! Like a good candidate.. Depending on one's definition of a good candidate. At least it's productive, history readings and candidate lessons that they've all been given. Because Lest is /that/ bored. Whistling doesn't bug him, nope, he's drowning them all out.
It's not just the girl a bunk over that's giving Whitchek dirty looks for his whistling. Ajatha's also in her bunk across the way with her frame stretched out on her belly, a set of cards on the covers before her as she manages to find a card to match another set in her lone solitaire game. Nothing controversial to see here. The ones that come barreling in before Tiriana just get one of her dirty looks, annoyance flashing in her eyes. It's not until she glances toward the figure blocking the light in the door that she quirks a brow, her mouth following into a wry twitch. Look, another card flipped down into her suit.
While most people don't take kindly to being ignored, few are as willing to Do Something about it as Tiriana as she moves down ranks of bunk beds, eyeing the occupants. Most of them are watching, but for the few who aren't? Betegal under his pillow gets a long look, but it's Ulestien she tries harassing first. Her hand reaches to push his book down from in front of his face, so she can say, "Hi." This is a promising start.
The whistling continues, because Whitchek as ever is oblivious. He whistles, he finishes the lacing on one boot and picks up the other off the side of the bunk but never manages to catch the Weyrwoman's presence. Or maybe it's sort of a 'blocking her out' kind of thing. He has boots. And whistling. They're very important, and haven't threatened him before.
Ulestien blinks as the book goes down, brows furrowing slightly. Then, he's looking up at Tiriana and offering a cheery grin. "Hello, ma'am." He greets, "how are you? Come for a visit?" A pause and he's shifting to close that book. After all, it's rude for him to read while there's a woman present and speaking to him.
Betegal remains under his pillow, stubborn but more or less safe for now. For all anyone knows, he's tired. Maybe even asleep. It's a reasonable assumption. It would certainly explain him not standing at attention to honor the Weyrwoman or whatever.
Ah, someone speaks. Ajatha's eyes follow Tiriana and take in Ulestien, but she's dealing out another set of three to find a spot in the suits laid out before her. Not one word at the moment, but then again, it's a complicated thing, this game. Really.
"What are you reading?" Such a nice, innocuous question. "Let me see, candidate." And since Ulestien is thoughtfully closing his book, she reaches for it herself again, to skim over it idly. The whistling, the hiding--both Betegal and Whitchek earn long looks, but Tiriana lets them keep at it for just a little bit longer, while she focuses on Ulestien. "A visit, right. Iovniath thinks you dolts best not come anywhere near her eggs," she tells him, all conversational. "I said you can't be /that/ bad." But now, her tone says, she's doubting that, with another look around the barracks at all those faces.
Obviously, Whitchek has noticed Tiriana's presence and overheard something--or else the whistling just stops at that moment from pure coincidence. The boot-lacing continues, though, if only because boots without laces are not particularly useful things. There are a few half-hidden glances over in that direction, but sometimes it's just every man for himself.
Ulestien smiles, just slightly. "History of the Weyr, ma'am." He's giving it over without a fuss, nope. He just hands it on over. "Ahh, a visit.." A glance towards the others, "we're not being too productive right now." He notes then gives her another cheerful grin. "I don't think we're that bad, ma'am. But, they are her eggs and if she doesn't want us near them." He agrees with a shrug. "But, don't candidates touch the eggs?"
"Sounds fine by me," Betegal mutters from under his pillow. Ah! So he is awake, after all. He still doesn't move, though. Whether it's because he thinks Tiriana will ignore him or not is yet to be realized.
"Last time I checked, that was the way things worked," Ajatha murmurs, finally breaking the silence from her bunk with a flash of mirth in her steel-grey eyes. "Up to the weyrstaff." Without her gaze on them, her hands sweep up her cards and shuffle through the deck easily enough to deal out another set.
Tiriana looks almost disappointed that Whitchek stops whistling, to judge by the put-out look she gives him now. But, well. There's still Betegal, and since she now has that book in her hand, she throws it at him. She's got a pretty good arm on her, too. And just like she's not throwing the book--literally--at her candidates, Tiriana says, "Not unless we say you do. You don't impress me, and Iovniath, you don't get near those sands. Ever." Her mouth quirks into a broad smug grin. The power!
Possibly the wrong motivator. Whitchek's face, for a moment, goes all relief, although he masks it quickly, the instinctive act of a prey creature trying not to show fear. The second boot's laces are finished and he pulls on them experimentally. Might need footwear for escape purposes at this rate, but he's not going to bolt as long as nothing's actually being thrown at him.
Ulestien watches as the book goes, not moving from his bunk one inch. Not while she's still near him. Nope, not moving. He just nods his head in agreement. "Right, well, ma'am. I hope that we can impress you." Another, smile. And the man holds his tongue, smarter move for the candidate at this point, it seems.
The book nails Betegal in the abdomen and it's quickly followed by a loud curse while the ex smith turned candidate works on curling in on what's probably more pain than injury. And his pride. Don't forget his pride. "So you're just going to let all those eggs go to waste then, eh?" retorts Bety stupidly. That book came awfully close to some sensitive things and he's no doubt feeling a little- no, a lot defensive. "Ma'am," he adds belatedly, through clenched teeth.
Ajatha twists her mouth into a sly smirk this time, all knowing and the like. Instead of offering up a comment, however, she eyes the arch of the book and shakes her head, starting to set out random cards again. Seems the hush-up bug is spreading.
The smartass retort makes Tiriana smirk more, her brows lifting. She plants one hand on a hip. "Might. Maybe. Maybe /yours/, anyway," she answers. "If there is even one. I imagine not, though. Right?" And she looks at the other candidates: Ulestien minus his book, Whitchek, Ajatha. The latter gets a double-take, Tiriana looking hard at her though she flicks a look Whitchek-wards when she speaks. "You're awfully quiet today."
"Discretion," says Whitchek simply. He pulls on one of the boots and fusses with pulling the laces tight around his foot. He could say something else. He could point out that she's obviously not after friendly conversation. He could point out that she was very angry at him the last time he saw her. He could say a lot of things. But for once, blessedly, he doesn't.
Ulestien coughs, faintly, keeping himself quiet as he looks towards Betegal. The looks towards the others and towards Whitchek, keeping quiet as quiet can be. And with his book gone, he's left not doing much of anything.
When he's done whimpering, or maybe just more angry than embarrassed, Betegal sits up and tosses the book to the floor roughly in Ulestien's direction. As in, he tosses it to the floor on that side of his bed and shoots daggers from his eyes at Tiriana when she turns her attention to Whitchek.
"Who can say," Ajatha presents with a soft clearing of her throat, lazily kicking her feet above her back without looking up this time. Furrowing her brow over a card, she surveys the new set and taps the card against her lips, looking for the place it goes. All is mirthful in Jathi-land.
"Well, I do not approve. You people are pathetic," complains Tiriana, with a glower for Whitchek, for Betegal, even for Ajatha and Ulestien, who haven't outright annoyed her so much as just not jumped when she says jump. She steps forward now, to flop onto Betegal's cot like she belongs there. "You. All of you." A hand waves, mostly at the four of them; recusing the other candidates from Weyrwoman-entertaining duties for the time being. "Aren't you going to /do/ something. Entertain me."
Entertain. The look Whitchek gives to the Weyrwoman is pure oh-my-god-she's-crazy. "You want us to... what?" He's just gotten that other boot on. Fleeing is starting to seem like a real possibility. "Do... what? To entertain you? I don't, er, juggle or anything." A glance is cast around at the others, like maybe one of them has hitherto unknown talents in the entertainment arena.
Ulestien shifts from his bunk, scooping up the book and tucking it aside. A glance towards Tiriana. "With all due respect, ma'am.. We're not toys." A pause and then he's shrugging his shoulders, "juggling is easy, Whitchek." Tiriana gets a grin, "but, I could play a song, if you want."
Betegal's lip twitches like he might snarl at the woman for invading his space. But that would be weird. Aren't most guys happy to get a woman like that in their bed? Instead he just stares at her, with a vague hint of confusion in his expression. He scoots toward the opposite side of his cot, perhaps trying to get out of striking range, and seems to expect her to take Lest up on his offer.
Wait, the.. four of them? Ajatha glances back up and arches both pale brows at the goldrider this time at the thought of entertaining the woman. Instead, she perches her chin on her palm, considering from her high-up bunk. Let's see who takes up the monumental task!
Tiriana just looks up at Betegal, lifts her brows as if to say, 'what are you going to do about it? Nothing, that's what.' And she just scoots back a little more, crosses her legs and folds her arms in her lap. "Songs? What kind of songs? Bar songs are okay, not that sappy romantic shit that I bet you play. You look like that type. Doesn't he look like that type?" And she looks to Whitchek and Ajatha for back-up. Especially that girl.
"What do I know about sappy romantic shi--stuff?" asks Whitchek with a defensive strain in his voice, sitting on the edge of his bunk. "I'm not precisely musical." Which explains the whistling.
Ulestien nods, "any type of song. Could do something cheery with the flute? Or.. Something sorrowful with the harp. No words though." A pause and shakes his head. "Don't do romantic." Not this man, nope. Towards Whitchek he offers, "could give you a flute, might help with the whistling." Or just make him more obnoxious.
It's probably a good thing that Betegal tossed the book aside or else he might throw it back at Tiriana by the expression he returns to her challenging brows. He shifts toward the edge of the bed like he's attempting to sneak away. Maybe he can get a headstart on chores.
"Don't think that would help so much," Ajatha predicts with that Southern lilt and with a wink at Ulestien and finally flattens her other hand over her cards, giving up on the hand for a moment in consideration of the other candidates at the questions. "I doubt romanticism is in many of their repertoires at the moment, music or otherwise." Airily. "Or would be. Until after the hatching releases them from their candidate bonds." Diplomatic.. in -some- part of the world. Some tiny podunk part, really. No, really. /What/ did she just say?
"Yeah, we noticed," Tiriana notes, her nose snurling up as she eyes Whitchek. "Where are you going?" And that's to Betegal as she rounds on him for his scooting; Tiriana, in return, sprawls to take up more of his cot, even fluffing his pillow up for him. Then, a look at Ajatha, consideringly, before she finally notes, "You. You... you. I know you?" Her head tilts. "Anyway, candidacy just makes them /worse/. They get all sobby about the girls they can't be with now. Right? Are /you/ two going to be like that, too?" She looks from Betegal to Whitchek, brows lifting.
Dark eyes narrow at the girl from Southern. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Whitchek says to her. "I can--" Glance at Tiriana as she adds to the conversation. "And I'm not all sobby in the least bit. This is just a temporary inconvenience and she happens to understand it just fine." As everybody who's spent about five minutes talking to him since he was Searched has probably already heard. Twice.
Ajatha's mouth curls upward into another of those sly smirks, shaking her head. "Well, if they're soppy, then they've hidden it well. Only heard one of the younger brats crying for their mama." A hand waves over that way, way over there in some nondescript direction. "Oh, I'm sure that we've seen each other one or twice before. Our families know one another.. Or did, once upon a long, long, long time ago." She lifts her chin at the dark-eyed one who spoke this time. "That, dear boy, is what I am talking about. Soppiness."
"I'm going to take a bath or something. Ma'am." There's emphasis on that last word just so that Tiriana doesn't fail to note its use. Betegal snorts an unpleasant sound at the accusations of sobbiness and assure everyone within hearing distance, "I've yet to meet anyone worth getting sobby over." He doesn't wait for a response. He turns and makes to leave. And probably get new bedding.
Ulestien doesn't move to get his flute, seeing as he wasn't asked to. Nope, he's not moving at all. "I'm not sobby over women I could have.." A slow grin towards Tiriana, "not a big issue. Men with willpower can keep themselves from missing it too much."
Betegal has disconnected.
"You will. /Boys/," Tiriana tells Betegal smugly. And she sprawls out on his bed entirely when he gets up, boots and all. "Have fun. Go get laid or something, you need it." And she smirks at him, making herself at home with her arms folded behind her head. "Men don't have willpower. --Our families?" That gets her attention, and the goldrider sits up, brows furrowing as she eyes Ajatha.
Whitchek's reply sounds less upset than baffled: "Of course we do. Maybe not so much *here*. Nobody seems to have any self-control around here." Like, say, certain Weyrwomen, but he at least implies rather than coming right out with it. But Tiriana's attention is now on Ajatha--and as far as Whit's concerned, that's a fantastic thing, allowing him the freedom of actually breathing easily for a moment.
Ulestien coughs softly, "if you say so, ma'am." He agrees finally, but Lest isn't sobbing over any woman and no sex. Nope, the flute is fetched and he fiddles with it idly, no longer paying full attention to the conversation.
"Let's just say.. that our fathers were.. not so much close as.. associated, during your's weyrlinghood." Her eyes brighten with such mirth there at the word 'associated', the laughter hidden just behind her twitching mouth. In an instant, it's gone behind a dip of her lashes innocently, her cards resuming their placement against another. "Men with willpower are targets for women that would see that power broken." More innocence.
Tiriana doesn't quite follow, still eyeing Ajatha suspiciously. "My father was associated with a lot of people. In weyrlinghood and out. Nobody /male/, though," she says, eyes narrowing. After a moment, her head shakes, trying to dismiss that implication. "Men are just targets. Easy ones, too," she announces. "And we have plenty of self-control. Some of us. Just because we're not frigid, sober, /boring/ prudes--" Glower at Whitchek.
Whitchek can't glower at Tiriana back right away because he's too busy glowering at Ajatha. There's a lot of that glowering going around. "Any man who falls for a woman like *that* deserves what he gets," says the frigid, sober, boring prude. Then, to the Weyrwoman: "Of course," mildly. "My mistake." Which is about as convincing a retraction as... well, no, it's not actually convincing in the least. He props his feet up on his bunk and sits back, though, at least he doesn't try to dive under it.
"But my father was quite of that impression. Since he Searched Sh'drian, and all," Ajatha hints with another little bread crumb and beams sunnily under the glowering like a rose under some much-enjoyed sun. "Any man that leaves himself open for that should protect what he values most." Glancing between Whit and Tiriana quirks one of those very blonde, finely arched eyebrows again, just so. "At least some of them don't act as if we are frustrated holder boys. Too much self-control for their own good."
"You--YOU!" Tiriana says, jumping up finally from Betegal's bed. She's staring at Ajatha, which at least distracts her from retorting to Whitchek. "Ajatha? Seriously? What the fuck are you doing /here/? Fuck. Ew. Your fucking father--" Is worthy of lots of cussing, apparently; along with a dismissive ewewew gesture. "Ew. God. I have to--I have to go." And she does! She disappears, shuddering, remarkably quickly.
"What--" Whitchek looks after Tiriana's departure with mouth almost agape, and then across to Ajatha, eyebrows raised. "What was all that about?" He sits up a little more, sliding his feet down towards the end of the bunk. "She's very foul-mouthed ordinarily, but that seemed to be... more than usual." A pause, then: "Any sort of decent behavior always seems to strike you Weyr people as 'too much self-control'."
Ulestien watches as Tiriana leaves, perhaps it's relief that spreads across his face. Flute gets tucked away again, book returned and he's reading again. "Not saying anything about her, she might have ears everywhere. And franky, I want to see the eggs closer. I'm not going to try and get on her bad side."
Excuse Ajatha while she promptly dissolves into laughter. It's full-blown and entirely too amused. She's even covering her mouth, to no avail. It doesn't even muffle the voice that carries after the Weyrwoman. "It's good to see you too, Tiri!" And if she just put a nail in her own coffin, she doesn't seem to mind. Not her doing, what happened in the past! Though, she does gain a little control over her laughter to eye Whitchek. "I was right, wasn't I. Holderboy?"
Whitchek casts a smile over at Ulestien. "Seen 'em from far away and that's enough for me. They're not much to look at." Self-control aside, the look he shoots Ajatha after that is just daggers. "No, I grew up here. Spent my whole life here. And I still talk about morals and decent behavior and marriage like any self-respecting person would. Of *course* I'm from a Hold."
When: Day 23, Month 9, Turn 19
Where: Candidate Barracks, High Reaches Weyr
What: Tiriana harasses the candidates, in varying degrees.
Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr
Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second.
Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.
Contents:
Ulestien
Whitchek
Ajatha
Carobet
Betegal
Obvious exits:
Common Room
Evening free time and random folks scattered around the barracks doing lots of random things. One of them is Whitchek, who has been for days now maddening those near his bunk with his whistling, is... whistling again, and stringing laces through a boot as he does so. It's earning him a lot of glares from the girl a bunk over. The whistling, probably, not the boot.
Weyrwoman in the house! Bad news travels fast, as they say, and little faster than this: as soon as Tiriana takes the turn toward the candidate barracks, one of the youngest and smallest candidates is squealing ahead of her to warn everybody. Rather than be offended by her infamy, however, Tiriana only smirks and pauses in the doorway, silhouetted for effect.
Betegal is laying on his bed, belly up, with his pillow over his head and his arm over the pillow to hold it firmly in place to drown out both light and sound with minimal success. The younger candidates avoid his bed. He's probably growled at them already, repeatedly, for disturbing him in times like these.
Ulestien is sitting on his bunk. Reading! Like a good candidate.. Depending on one's definition of a good candidate. At least it's productive, history readings and candidate lessons that they've all been given. Because Lest is /that/ bored. Whistling doesn't bug him, nope, he's drowning them all out.
It's not just the girl a bunk over that's giving Whitchek dirty looks for his whistling. Ajatha's also in her bunk across the way with her frame stretched out on her belly, a set of cards on the covers before her as she manages to find a card to match another set in her lone solitaire game. Nothing controversial to see here. The ones that come barreling in before Tiriana just get one of her dirty looks, annoyance flashing in her eyes. It's not until she glances toward the figure blocking the light in the door that she quirks a brow, her mouth following into a wry twitch. Look, another card flipped down into her suit.
While most people don't take kindly to being ignored, few are as willing to Do Something about it as Tiriana as she moves down ranks of bunk beds, eyeing the occupants. Most of them are watching, but for the few who aren't? Betegal under his pillow gets a long look, but it's Ulestien she tries harassing first. Her hand reaches to push his book down from in front of his face, so she can say, "Hi." This is a promising start.
The whistling continues, because Whitchek as ever is oblivious. He whistles, he finishes the lacing on one boot and picks up the other off the side of the bunk but never manages to catch the Weyrwoman's presence. Or maybe it's sort of a 'blocking her out' kind of thing. He has boots. And whistling. They're very important, and haven't threatened him before.
Ulestien blinks as the book goes down, brows furrowing slightly. Then, he's looking up at Tiriana and offering a cheery grin. "Hello, ma'am." He greets, "how are you? Come for a visit?" A pause and he's shifting to close that book. After all, it's rude for him to read while there's a woman present and speaking to him.
Betegal remains under his pillow, stubborn but more or less safe for now. For all anyone knows, he's tired. Maybe even asleep. It's a reasonable assumption. It would certainly explain him not standing at attention to honor the Weyrwoman or whatever.
Ah, someone speaks. Ajatha's eyes follow Tiriana and take in Ulestien, but she's dealing out another set of three to find a spot in the suits laid out before her. Not one word at the moment, but then again, it's a complicated thing, this game. Really.
"What are you reading?" Such a nice, innocuous question. "Let me see, candidate." And since Ulestien is thoughtfully closing his book, she reaches for it herself again, to skim over it idly. The whistling, the hiding--both Betegal and Whitchek earn long looks, but Tiriana lets them keep at it for just a little bit longer, while she focuses on Ulestien. "A visit, right. Iovniath thinks you dolts best not come anywhere near her eggs," she tells him, all conversational. "I said you can't be /that/ bad." But now, her tone says, she's doubting that, with another look around the barracks at all those faces.
Obviously, Whitchek has noticed Tiriana's presence and overheard something--or else the whistling just stops at that moment from pure coincidence. The boot-lacing continues, though, if only because boots without laces are not particularly useful things. There are a few half-hidden glances over in that direction, but sometimes it's just every man for himself.
Ulestien smiles, just slightly. "History of the Weyr, ma'am." He's giving it over without a fuss, nope. He just hands it on over. "Ahh, a visit.." A glance towards the others, "we're not being too productive right now." He notes then gives her another cheerful grin. "I don't think we're that bad, ma'am. But, they are her eggs and if she doesn't want us near them." He agrees with a shrug. "But, don't candidates touch the eggs?"
"Sounds fine by me," Betegal mutters from under his pillow. Ah! So he is awake, after all. He still doesn't move, though. Whether it's because he thinks Tiriana will ignore him or not is yet to be realized.
"Last time I checked, that was the way things worked," Ajatha murmurs, finally breaking the silence from her bunk with a flash of mirth in her steel-grey eyes. "Up to the weyrstaff." Without her gaze on them, her hands sweep up her cards and shuffle through the deck easily enough to deal out another set.
Tiriana looks almost disappointed that Whitchek stops whistling, to judge by the put-out look she gives him now. But, well. There's still Betegal, and since she now has that book in her hand, she throws it at him. She's got a pretty good arm on her, too. And just like she's not throwing the book--literally--at her candidates, Tiriana says, "Not unless we say you do. You don't impress me, and Iovniath, you don't get near those sands. Ever." Her mouth quirks into a broad smug grin. The power!
Possibly the wrong motivator. Whitchek's face, for a moment, goes all relief, although he masks it quickly, the instinctive act of a prey creature trying not to show fear. The second boot's laces are finished and he pulls on them experimentally. Might need footwear for escape purposes at this rate, but he's not going to bolt as long as nothing's actually being thrown at him.
Ulestien watches as the book goes, not moving from his bunk one inch. Not while she's still near him. Nope, not moving. He just nods his head in agreement. "Right, well, ma'am. I hope that we can impress you." Another, smile. And the man holds his tongue, smarter move for the candidate at this point, it seems.
The book nails Betegal in the abdomen and it's quickly followed by a loud curse while the ex smith turned candidate works on curling in on what's probably more pain than injury. And his pride. Don't forget his pride. "So you're just going to let all those eggs go to waste then, eh?" retorts Bety stupidly. That book came awfully close to some sensitive things and he's no doubt feeling a little- no, a lot defensive. "Ma'am," he adds belatedly, through clenched teeth.
Ajatha twists her mouth into a sly smirk this time, all knowing and the like. Instead of offering up a comment, however, she eyes the arch of the book and shakes her head, starting to set out random cards again. Seems the hush-up bug is spreading.
The smartass retort makes Tiriana smirk more, her brows lifting. She plants one hand on a hip. "Might. Maybe. Maybe /yours/, anyway," she answers. "If there is even one. I imagine not, though. Right?" And she looks at the other candidates: Ulestien minus his book, Whitchek, Ajatha. The latter gets a double-take, Tiriana looking hard at her though she flicks a look Whitchek-wards when she speaks. "You're awfully quiet today."
"Discretion," says Whitchek simply. He pulls on one of the boots and fusses with pulling the laces tight around his foot. He could say something else. He could point out that she's obviously not after friendly conversation. He could point out that she was very angry at him the last time he saw her. He could say a lot of things. But for once, blessedly, he doesn't.
Ulestien coughs, faintly, keeping himself quiet as he looks towards Betegal. The looks towards the others and towards Whitchek, keeping quiet as quiet can be. And with his book gone, he's left not doing much of anything.
When he's done whimpering, or maybe just more angry than embarrassed, Betegal sits up and tosses the book to the floor roughly in Ulestien's direction. As in, he tosses it to the floor on that side of his bed and shoots daggers from his eyes at Tiriana when she turns her attention to Whitchek.
"Who can say," Ajatha presents with a soft clearing of her throat, lazily kicking her feet above her back without looking up this time. Furrowing her brow over a card, she surveys the new set and taps the card against her lips, looking for the place it goes. All is mirthful in Jathi-land.
"Well, I do not approve. You people are pathetic," complains Tiriana, with a glower for Whitchek, for Betegal, even for Ajatha and Ulestien, who haven't outright annoyed her so much as just not jumped when she says jump. She steps forward now, to flop onto Betegal's cot like she belongs there. "You. All of you." A hand waves, mostly at the four of them; recusing the other candidates from Weyrwoman-entertaining duties for the time being. "Aren't you going to /do/ something. Entertain me."
Entertain. The look Whitchek gives to the Weyrwoman is pure oh-my-god-she's-crazy. "You want us to... what?" He's just gotten that other boot on. Fleeing is starting to seem like a real possibility. "Do... what? To entertain you? I don't, er, juggle or anything." A glance is cast around at the others, like maybe one of them has hitherto unknown talents in the entertainment arena.
Ulestien shifts from his bunk, scooping up the book and tucking it aside. A glance towards Tiriana. "With all due respect, ma'am.. We're not toys." A pause and then he's shrugging his shoulders, "juggling is easy, Whitchek." Tiriana gets a grin, "but, I could play a song, if you want."
Betegal's lip twitches like he might snarl at the woman for invading his space. But that would be weird. Aren't most guys happy to get a woman like that in their bed? Instead he just stares at her, with a vague hint of confusion in his expression. He scoots toward the opposite side of his cot, perhaps trying to get out of striking range, and seems to expect her to take Lest up on his offer.
Wait, the.. four of them? Ajatha glances back up and arches both pale brows at the goldrider this time at the thought of entertaining the woman. Instead, she perches her chin on her palm, considering from her high-up bunk. Let's see who takes up the monumental task!
Tiriana just looks up at Betegal, lifts her brows as if to say, 'what are you going to do about it? Nothing, that's what.' And she just scoots back a little more, crosses her legs and folds her arms in her lap. "Songs? What kind of songs? Bar songs are okay, not that sappy romantic shit that I bet you play. You look like that type. Doesn't he look like that type?" And she looks to Whitchek and Ajatha for back-up. Especially that girl.
"What do I know about sappy romantic shi--stuff?" asks Whitchek with a defensive strain in his voice, sitting on the edge of his bunk. "I'm not precisely musical." Which explains the whistling.
Ulestien nods, "any type of song. Could do something cheery with the flute? Or.. Something sorrowful with the harp. No words though." A pause and shakes his head. "Don't do romantic." Not this man, nope. Towards Whitchek he offers, "could give you a flute, might help with the whistling." Or just make him more obnoxious.
It's probably a good thing that Betegal tossed the book aside or else he might throw it back at Tiriana by the expression he returns to her challenging brows. He shifts toward the edge of the bed like he's attempting to sneak away. Maybe he can get a headstart on chores.
"Don't think that would help so much," Ajatha predicts with that Southern lilt and with a wink at Ulestien and finally flattens her other hand over her cards, giving up on the hand for a moment in consideration of the other candidates at the questions. "I doubt romanticism is in many of their repertoires at the moment, music or otherwise." Airily. "Or would be. Until after the hatching releases them from their candidate bonds." Diplomatic.. in -some- part of the world. Some tiny podunk part, really. No, really. /What/ did she just say?
"Yeah, we noticed," Tiriana notes, her nose snurling up as she eyes Whitchek. "Where are you going?" And that's to Betegal as she rounds on him for his scooting; Tiriana, in return, sprawls to take up more of his cot, even fluffing his pillow up for him. Then, a look at Ajatha, consideringly, before she finally notes, "You. You... you. I know you?" Her head tilts. "Anyway, candidacy just makes them /worse/. They get all sobby about the girls they can't be with now. Right? Are /you/ two going to be like that, too?" She looks from Betegal to Whitchek, brows lifting.
Dark eyes narrow at the girl from Southern. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Whitchek says to her. "I can--" Glance at Tiriana as she adds to the conversation. "And I'm not all sobby in the least bit. This is just a temporary inconvenience and she happens to understand it just fine." As everybody who's spent about five minutes talking to him since he was Searched has probably already heard. Twice.
Ajatha's mouth curls upward into another of those sly smirks, shaking her head. "Well, if they're soppy, then they've hidden it well. Only heard one of the younger brats crying for their mama." A hand waves over that way, way over there in some nondescript direction. "Oh, I'm sure that we've seen each other one or twice before. Our families know one another.. Or did, once upon a long, long, long time ago." She lifts her chin at the dark-eyed one who spoke this time. "That, dear boy, is what I am talking about. Soppiness."
"I'm going to take a bath or something. Ma'am." There's emphasis on that last word just so that Tiriana doesn't fail to note its use. Betegal snorts an unpleasant sound at the accusations of sobbiness and assure everyone within hearing distance, "I've yet to meet anyone worth getting sobby over." He doesn't wait for a response. He turns and makes to leave. And probably get new bedding.
Ulestien doesn't move to get his flute, seeing as he wasn't asked to. Nope, he's not moving at all. "I'm not sobby over women I could have.." A slow grin towards Tiriana, "not a big issue. Men with willpower can keep themselves from missing it too much."
Betegal has disconnected.
"You will. /Boys/," Tiriana tells Betegal smugly. And she sprawls out on his bed entirely when he gets up, boots and all. "Have fun. Go get laid or something, you need it." And she smirks at him, making herself at home with her arms folded behind her head. "Men don't have willpower. --Our families?" That gets her attention, and the goldrider sits up, brows furrowing as she eyes Ajatha.
Whitchek's reply sounds less upset than baffled: "Of course we do. Maybe not so much *here*. Nobody seems to have any self-control around here." Like, say, certain Weyrwomen, but he at least implies rather than coming right out with it. But Tiriana's attention is now on Ajatha--and as far as Whit's concerned, that's a fantastic thing, allowing him the freedom of actually breathing easily for a moment.
Ulestien coughs softly, "if you say so, ma'am." He agrees finally, but Lest isn't sobbing over any woman and no sex. Nope, the flute is fetched and he fiddles with it idly, no longer paying full attention to the conversation.
"Let's just say.. that our fathers were.. not so much close as.. associated, during your's weyrlinghood." Her eyes brighten with such mirth there at the word 'associated', the laughter hidden just behind her twitching mouth. In an instant, it's gone behind a dip of her lashes innocently, her cards resuming their placement against another. "Men with willpower are targets for women that would see that power broken." More innocence.
Tiriana doesn't quite follow, still eyeing Ajatha suspiciously. "My father was associated with a lot of people. In weyrlinghood and out. Nobody /male/, though," she says, eyes narrowing. After a moment, her head shakes, trying to dismiss that implication. "Men are just targets. Easy ones, too," she announces. "And we have plenty of self-control. Some of us. Just because we're not frigid, sober, /boring/ prudes--" Glower at Whitchek.
Whitchek can't glower at Tiriana back right away because he's too busy glowering at Ajatha. There's a lot of that glowering going around. "Any man who falls for a woman like *that* deserves what he gets," says the frigid, sober, boring prude. Then, to the Weyrwoman: "Of course," mildly. "My mistake." Which is about as convincing a retraction as... well, no, it's not actually convincing in the least. He props his feet up on his bunk and sits back, though, at least he doesn't try to dive under it.
"But my father was quite of that impression. Since he Searched Sh'drian, and all," Ajatha hints with another little bread crumb and beams sunnily under the glowering like a rose under some much-enjoyed sun. "Any man that leaves himself open for that should protect what he values most." Glancing between Whit and Tiriana quirks one of those very blonde, finely arched eyebrows again, just so. "At least some of them don't act as if we are frustrated holder boys. Too much self-control for their own good."
"You--YOU!" Tiriana says, jumping up finally from Betegal's bed. She's staring at Ajatha, which at least distracts her from retorting to Whitchek. "Ajatha? Seriously? What the fuck are you doing /here/? Fuck. Ew. Your fucking father--" Is worthy of lots of cussing, apparently; along with a dismissive ewewew gesture. "Ew. God. I have to--I have to go." And she does! She disappears, shuddering, remarkably quickly.
"What--" Whitchek looks after Tiriana's departure with mouth almost agape, and then across to Ajatha, eyebrows raised. "What was all that about?" He sits up a little more, sliding his feet down towards the end of the bunk. "She's very foul-mouthed ordinarily, but that seemed to be... more than usual." A pause, then: "Any sort of decent behavior always seems to strike you Weyr people as 'too much self-control'."
Ulestien watches as Tiriana leaves, perhaps it's relief that spreads across his face. Flute gets tucked away again, book returned and he's reading again. "Not saying anything about her, she might have ears everywhere. And franky, I want to see the eggs closer. I'm not going to try and get on her bad side."
Excuse Ajatha while she promptly dissolves into laughter. It's full-blown and entirely too amused. She's even covering her mouth, to no avail. It doesn't even muffle the voice that carries after the Weyrwoman. "It's good to see you too, Tiri!" And if she just put a nail in her own coffin, she doesn't seem to mind. Not her doing, what happened in the past! Though, she does gain a little control over her laughter to eye Whitchek. "I was right, wasn't I. Holderboy?"
Whitchek casts a smile over at Ulestien. "Seen 'em from far away and that's enough for me. They're not much to look at." Self-control aside, the look he shoots Ajatha after that is just daggers. "No, I grew up here. Spent my whole life here. And I still talk about morals and decent behavior and marriage like any self-respecting person would. Of *course* I'm from a Hold."