[Log] Low Blows
Who: Isziyo, R'uen, Tiriana, Whitchek
When: Day 12, Month 11, Turn 19
Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
What: R'uen's reproductive prospects go up; Isziyo's go way... way... way down.
Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.
The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
Contents:
Isziyo
Obvious exits:
Sands Bowl
It may be raining, outside, but Isziyo's been here for a while, parked at the lowest row, dangling his hands over the railing and gazing at the sand- and eggs, arranged so artistically. His expression is pensive, and his thoughts are obviously inward. The young man doesn't stir, seemingly deep in whatever it is that he's contemplating.
Tiriana, too, has been here for a while; byproduct of her gold on the sands. Iovniath has again spent the day fussing with her eggs, carefully turning each one over, while Tiriana loiters around with her, trying to oil her in the process. Eventually, both of them are finished, or exasperated with the other, and while Iovniath goes to sleep, Tiriana cleans up and trudges back up the steps to the galleries.
Isziyo's gaze sharpens on the goldrider ascending the steps, though not too much; he's the visage of a sleepy, broody hawk than a hunting peregrine, of current state. He doesn't say anything - not yet - but shifts slightly on his chair, chin turning steadily to keep track of the weyrwoman. He's not about to risk her wrath... yet.
It's cold outside. And wet. And for some reason, Whitchek has trudged through it anyway, evidently, just to come see the eggs. Totally. There could be no other reason why he would be out on an evening like this. But, though half-frozen and soaked, when he wanders into the galleries he's totally smiling. Absolutely beatific. It could be considered terrifying, by some.
Faced with a pair of candidates, Tiriana glances back and forth between Isziyo and Whitchek for a moment. Then she pauses on the stairs, one arm leaned on the railing. And apparently Whitchek is deamed the easier target, because it's him and his goofy smile that earns her raised brows. "What, you just get laid or something?" she asks.
Isziyo ignores Whitchek, because that is what he is good at. Well, until Tiriana acknowledges the brat. Dammit. "Him? Laid? His precious morals would eat him alive if he so much as took off a girl's bra," Isziyo rumbles his opinion of the situation with a sidling look to Whit, mockery evident in his eyes.
Beatific, damn it. *Beatific*. That means saintly. And Whitchek is going to maintain this sainthood business if it kills him, although for a split second it looks like the question might, like he's possibly actually forgotten how to breathe. But, well, where he comes from people don't ask questions like that. More smiling. He sits himself down on a stone bench. Smiles. "That," he says to Isziyo, bypassing the Weyrwoman's question entirely, "is entirely untrue. Provided it were done within the bounds of formal commitment."
"So... did you or didn't you?" Tiriana wonders for clarification purposes. She eyes Whitchek a moment longer, then slides into a seat near the two boys. "Formal commitment... What kind of guy are you? That's just sad. You know the ones that talk a lot about commitments and all that?" she remarks, with a pointed look not for Whitchek, but for Isziyo. "The ones who can't get any sex at all."
"Instead of collecting a black eye from you, can I give him one instead? Please?" Isziyo honest-to-Faranth questions Tiriana, with a pleading note to his bass rumble. "Pretty please. I'll do something really nice for you if you let me." There's a thoughtful pause, and he tacks on, "Ma'am," nearly as an afterthought. After her question, the large young man rearranges himself into a careless sprawl against the bench, and a smirk touches at the corners of his lips. "Poor kid. Can't get any sex, eh? Probably why you've always been so damned uppity."
"A gentleman," says Whitchek to the Weyrwoman. And smiles. And smiles. If it wasn't creepy before, it's definitely to the point of creepy now. He tries to bite it back, obviously, but it's just not working. He braces his arms with his palms flat on the stone bench. "What I could get is none of your business. And I would sorely like to see you try, Isziyo. Sorely."
"Candidates can't fight," Tiriana answers, with a supercilious curl of her lip. "I'll throw you out if you hit him. That's my right." And nothing pleases her more than special privileges. "Besides, how often do /you/ get laid, anyway? That hair," or lack thereof. Tiriana eyes his bald head for a long moment, pointedly. "It's gross. What are you trying to hide, that you're losing it all already?"
"Kid, I'm sorry. But you're a tiny little thing compared to me. Frail. Like an old lady," Isz patronizingly explains to Whitchek, as if he's either too young or too old to truly understand the statement. Tiri's response, however, makes him scowl momentarily. Crazy b-- "Weyrwoman Tiriana, when I want it, I get it." Typically. And then there's a sigh. The head. It's a love or a hate thing. He knows this by now. "I shave it off. Ma'am. It doesn't look weird, it just... gets in my way. Was easier, in the stables, to not have hair. Runners try to chew it, half the time, you know." Matter-of-fact. And then, again, as an afterthought, another, "Ma'am."
"Yeah, and N'thei couldn't hit me until I let him," Whitchek points out, all smugness and still smiles. "Please. You spend a lifetime shoveling manure and you think it gets you somewhere?" Smiling, smiling. The kind of point where if you had to do it willingly your face would hurt for hours after. "But by all means, Weyrwoman," in deferrment to Tiriana, if it can be called that. "It can wait."
"Maybe if you were /competent/ with them," Tiriana sneers. "I used to be a stablehand, you know. --Watch it." The latter to Whitchek, when he insults their mutual profession. But she leans back, her mouth pursing up as she studies the two men. "Of course, if you'd like to duke it out, go right ahead. Just hand me your knots and then get out of my galleries, and have at it." Smirk.
Isziyo rolls his eyes at Whitchek-the-wuss. "Let me guess. Someone gave you fellis so you wouldn't feel it when she hit you." He scoots over closer to Tiriana, and - after ignoring her request for both of their knots - quite levelly states, "I was going to come on to you, ask you if you wanted to go somewhere quiet," he rather earnestly tells the weyrwoman. (He has a death wish.) "You're beautiful, and intelligent, and I feel myself falling for you the more I sit and watch you." This may be going over the top. Carry on. "But I realize that you belong to another, and while that hurts me, I understand." He's so deadpan. Is he for real? He's a walking soap-opera at this point, otherwise! "Please, put me out of my misery." He opens his broad, big paws of hands wide, extends them both out to the side, and closes his eyes, offering his left eye for the 'inevitable' shot. Or so he hopes.
Eyes flicker between Tiriana and Isziyo at first. "Fellis? No. No, no." Beaming, still. And, if possible, moreso as Isziyo starts in on the flattery. "Oh, come *on*. Seriously? This is just embarrassing." Not that he's going to stop it from happening, oh, no. He's just going to spectate. And smile.
Tiriana is annoyed, sure. Her mouth tightens up, and she eyes Isziyo for a long moment. And she gets up, because it's much easier to get the levereage to punch somebody from that position. And then instead of socking him one in the eye, she aims a knee hard at his groin while his eyes are closed.
All the breath leaves Isziyo's lungs in a choked wheeze, and he falls sideways, curling into a fetal ball. Pain. Lots... of pain.
The smile actually falters for a moment--it has to, because it's actually surprisingly difficult to burst out laughing when you're grinning like that. Whitchek does, however, limit it to a few choked guffaws. "You see? Told you."
"Oops," Tiriana says, dangerously saccharine. "I missed. Here, let me try again." Her smile is smug as she watches Isziyo curl up on himself and wheeze, though at least she doesn't laugh at him like Whitchek.
Isziyo flips Whitchek the bird, but he's too intent on the burning agony of his manbits to really notice if Tiri swings on him or not. He's really ignoring her. Really. He's still curled about himself, not saying anything. Hell, he's probably not /breathing/ yet.
"So," Whitchek finally says, utterly ignoring the admittedly delightful sight of Isziyo in the fetal position. "So, you know, I was going to come and just ask if we were supposed to be clever or if you really wanted to hit somebody," he offers to the Weyrwoman. "I'm not sure--" He chokes back another laugh. "I'm not sure, given this, which the answer actually is."
Tiriana has at least some mercy in her heart, because she doesn't punch Isziyo again. Instead, she reseats herself almost primly, hands folding in her lap while she turns a smile on Whitchek. "I don't mind clever people," she says. "I just really hate people that think they're clever." And she shoots a look back at the other candidate, snickering now, just a touch. "Do /you/ want me to punch you now?" Let's see how brave this one is now!
Isziyo may be shakey, but damned if he doesn't wobble his way back upright, both hands cupped around the boys protectively. And he eyes Tiriana, a long moment, unreadable expression in dark eyes - and extends his chin. "Please," he roughly wheezes. "Ma'am." Is he suicidal? Probably.
A strange moment of silence. Still smiling, but it's finally muted a little bit. "If you'd prefer that, I think you still owe me one," Whitchek blithely offers to the Weyrwoman. "But if you've gotten it out of your system," he pats a pocket, pulls out a sheet of folded paper, only a little damp yet, and a stick of charcoal wrapped in a bit of leather. "If you'll settle for giving me your autograph, I'll have two of what I need." Sideways glance at Isziyo. "When you're done, of course."
Suicidal? Well. That seems to get Isziyo a lot further with Tiriana than flattery, which probably says quite a lot about her character. So, obligingly, this time she doesn't pull her punch at all, and knocks him a good one right in the face. She's got a good strong arm, and afterward smirks at the unfortunate candidate, flexing her hand. "I don't think it really ever gets out of my system," she tells Whitchek, conversationally; like she isn't totally beating up on somebody else. "Now. My what?"
Kerthunk. Isz goes toppling over, ass over teakettle. THWUMP. That's the sound of him hitting the floor. What? Don't look at him like that. That punch has a kick to it. So, with the remainder of his pride, Isziyo straightens, feeling cautiously at his right eye - yeah, that's gonna leave a mark - and heads towards the stairs. He pauses, half turns, and blinks once. "Thank you," he briefly states to Tiriana, ignores the creepily smiling Whit, and heads down. Time to go to bed. Mission accomplished.
Isziyo heads down a short set of stairs to the bowl.
Isziyo has left.
"Signature," says Whitchek, stepping over closer, still giving Isziyo a wide berth as he leaves. "Just here," indicates, offers her the paper and charcoal. Smiles. Sits again, closer to the Weyrwoman this time. Not close, of course. Just... in more general proximity. "Gotta admit, nothing quite like that. Nothing. He's been on my ass since we met, I think." Swearing. In front of the Weyrwoman. Well, after that, she's definitely out of 'lady' territory for good.
"What a loser," says Tiriana, with a snicker as Isziyo finally beats a retreat. "Pathetic." But with a shake of her head, she turns back to Whitchek, eyes him as she takes the paper. She scribbles out a T, and then, just as she's about to add the next letter, she catches on. "Ohh," she says, with a smirk. "You're a clever one, too, huh. What if I don't spell it like that?"
Bit of a shrug. "You do. Checked," offers up Whitchek. "I do have... half a brain." Unlike, possibly, certain other people. "Just looking to spare you the wear and tear on your hand. Not like I haven't been hit before. You remember." He sits back, waits, grins. "Besides, for that, I want some kind of memento, and I don't think Isziyo's gonna do me the honor."
R'uen has arrived.
"Smart," says Tiriana, and so, obligingly, she finishes writing out her name for him in her left-handed scrawl. "There. Two i's, just for you," she says, holding the paper at arm's length to eye her signature for a moment. Then she leans over to pass it to Whitchek, where he sits just a little ways from her in the galleries. "A memento," she says then. "Of... me kicking him in the balls. Take it you two aren't friends, then."
The candidate takes the paper back, looks at it admiringly, folds it carefully again and puts it away. "Not so much friends as... sort of the opposite of friends," reflects Whitchek. "Only not exactly enemies because that would require more effort than it's worth. I avoid him. He likes to be vaguely obnoxious at meals." A shrug. "But that was worth being there for, yeah."
Now, if someone was paying attention, she might be aware that the frequently visiting Fortian bronze has arrived, but that someone might be too busy with eggs. And even if that someone was paying attention, that doesn't mean she would necessarily clue other someone's in. And so, whether or not Tiriana is at all prepared, R'uen appears at the entrance to the galleries, pausing just a moment to see that she's actually in here before he takes to the steps. It's enough time to overhear just a smidge. "What about balls?" It's a classy entrance.
"What, he chew with his mouth open or something?" Tiriana asks, skeptical. She shoots a sideways look at Whitchek, then asks, "Are you going to go around bragging about how you outsmarted me or something? So the next clever wannabe tries to pull the same stunt. I'm just waiting for one of them to try Betegal's thing, get a fake black eye with kohl. Going to write F-U-C-K-M-E across their forehead and send 'em out into--the world." She breaks off abruptly as she catches sight of R'uen, surprised expression declaring her lack of forewarning. "Rev!" she calls, mouth quirking into a broad, pleased grin. "I kicked one of the candidates in them."
"Wasn't planning on it," says Whitchek with slightly quirked eyebrows. "Hardly think of it as outsmarting. Figure if you wanted to hit me, you'd have done it already. Or," he adds, "may yet." Just to cover all the bases, there. He notes the arrival of the bronzerider with a nod but not much else; that kind of pleasure from Tiriana is not apt to be found often, and a reasonable person might question whether it's a good thing.
"Ah, that's one of my favorite faces," R'uen grins right back when he sees her surpise turn to that smug smile. With his boots heavy on the stairs under his lazy stride, he reaches the pair. "You kicked..." He laughs. Nice. "Not this one here, right?" A hand goes out to the young man who does not appear doubled over in debilitating pain and thus is probably not the candidate she's been abusing. "R'uen."
"No, the other one," says Tiriana, beaming as much as Whitchek was earlier. "Probably passed him on the way in. The big limping one. Wimp. He tried flirting with me." And she turns an expectant look on R'uen, like she expects him to go finish beating up on poor Isziyo for her. To Whitchek, "I figure either they need to man up and just ask for one, or come up with some way around it if they're not man enough to take that." Which Whitchek apparently isn't, to judge by the look she casts over him now. "So I won't hit you. For now."
Point of pride for Whitchek: "Madilla--that's my girl," he adds for R'uen's benefit, Whitchek now finally at the point where he can properly remember that oh, yes, he does have a girl, "Madilla wasn't so hot on the idea of hitting." Shrug. What can you do? Women. Only as obvious as the gesture is, it doesn't seen to encompass the Weyrwoman anymore. "Hell of a thing," he offers up. "Joy to see it. He's an ass." A shake of the offered hand. "Whitchek."
R'uen knows he's supposed to want to go beat up that Isziyo fellow just for flirting with Tiriana, which is exactly why he says: "Who could blame him? And he takes one in the nuts. Poor guy." Not that he seems at all broken up about it. "Whitchek. Nice to meet you. So you're not a fan of his either?" He eyes the candidate and then takes himself a comfortable seat, offering a different sort of hand toward Tiriana as he asks the young man, "What would you do if he was flirting with your girl. Madilla, you said."
Tiriana narrows her eyes at R'uen's lack of support for her, but when he sits down, she's still quick to slide over that way and lean up against him. Wiggling around to make herself comfortable, if not him necessarily, she turns another look on Whitchek and then snickers. "Nothing, I bet," she answers for him. "It's not like he's doing anything else for her now, am I right?"
"I think we have an understanding," muses Whitchek, still a little smile, but voice surprisingly flat. "Isziyo and I. He doesn't try to talk to her, I don't have to turn in my knot." But then the smile broadens again. "But that, of course, is us. Madilla and me, we're *Holders*, you understand," to R'uen. Implied, of course, that Tiriana obviously doesn't. Never mind the candidate's knot.
"Really?" R'uen asks Whitchek with some surprise, seeming rather unaware that Tiriana's cozying up to his side. "He looked pretty big, if that was the guy I passed. Does he... need an understanding with you?" As opposed to just taking the girl and squashing Whitchek into a pulp. But the bronzerider makes a big show of understanding, oh yes he does. "Ahh. Holders. Of course. I come from the Woodcraft myself," he adds in, putting a hand on Tiriana's knee. "Not quite the same, though, I'd imagine."
"Weyrbred," says Tiriana. And as if to prove it, or maybe just to get attention since R'uen's trying to pretend not to notice her cuddling up, she twists around to make him kiss her instead. Demanding woman, she is. "And I can take care of myself. Should teach Madilla how to, too, so she's not stuck relying on /you/ to defend her honor. Not that that's a bad plan, because I don't think you're ever going to do anything to... you know. Besmirch it, or whatever you people say." She makes an airy gesture for the word.
Funny how people always bring that up. Whitchek lets out a small sigh. "You know, height isn't everything," he says with a scowl. "Not that I have the least thought that she'd be taken in by such a thing," added, trying to avoid looking much at this whole kissing business. Look, hey, eggs. "No, I don't imagine it's the same. And I really don't want Madilla turning into..." Anything like Tiriana whatsoever?
R'uen goes from surprised, to pleased and letting a hand tug Tiriana's neck, to gently pushing her away. "Hey, hey," he scolds without any real meaning. "Not in front of the Holder." He turns to give her his cheek, or rather, to tap the side of his head. "Just whisper filthy things in my ear so he doesn't have to listen." Though he might smirk deeply for all of Tiriana's brazen behavior, when he turns back to Whitchek it's with a more serious expresson. "I understand that. Don't want her running around like a hussy, making you worry, stuff like that. That much I understand." But wait... Rev looks back at the goldrider and snerks. "You said 'besmirch'." He shakes his head at her and tries not to crack up.
"True," Tiriana will give that point to Whitchek, regarding the size difference. "And he's not that tough. I took him out fast. Usually they put up a little more fight than that." But then, how quickly she goes from kissing to punching, digging her fist in against R'uen's side. "Shut up, I don't know what holders say," she says, pouting for a moment. "And don't you push /me/ away. He ought to see it, get.. desensitized. It's not like we're fucking right here in front of him." Beat. "Although we /could/," and she shoots another smirk at Whitchek, just to see what kind of reaction she can goad.
That's Whitchek's cue not to hang around too long. Just in case. "Besmirch is a perfectly good word," he offers up. "I don't think she's going to be running around like a... hussy. I just don't want her getting jaded." A glance back at the two riders. But just a glance; obviously what they *are* doing is plenty. Hey, as far as public behavior goes, for Whitchek, holding hands is racy. "I think I'd best be headed back. I think it's stopped raining, finally."
"Ow!" R'uen makes a big show of his pained face when Tiriana puts her fist in his side. He reaches to snag her wrist and hold her back a bit. "She's just trying to push your buttons, you know," he tells the candidate with a sigh, rather disappointed to see him chased off so quickly. "And, well, she might be a filthy weyrbrat, but I'm not." He's totally going to get beat up for that, and so he does try to have control of both those fists, while he grins in anticipation of her reaction.
"Oh, did we scare you off, Whitchek?" Tiriana wonders, head tilting oh-so-innocently. "I should stop in and see her again sometime. Madilla I haven't been by in a while." And not nearly so subtly, and with a pasted-on sweet smile, she tries elbowing R'uen while he holds on to her. In a loud whisper, "Shut up, you don't go telling people that. Then it doesn't work."
The response sounds almost surprised. "I know," says Whitchek. "Doesn't make it appropriate behavior, though." He stands, pats his pocket to be sure that bit of paper is still there, nods to them both. "Nice to meet you, R'uen," first. Then: "Thank you, Weyrwoman." Presumably not for the talk of Madilla, of course. He heads for the exit, then, and the ending of a terrific day.
Whitchek goes home.
Whitchek has left.
"Good to meet you, too. And hey, I am sorry about this one here," R'uen calls as Whitchek moves away. "Stick with your Holder girl. These weyrbrats are too much trouble." Of course, then he turns back to Tiriana to let out one of those bright boyish laughs. "You kill me," he tells her, still not letting go of her hands.
For that, Tiriana tries elbowing again, still pouty-faced. "I do not," she says, as she leans back against him again, even as he holds her back from hitting. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Stone cold dump-you-between dead. I haven't done anything to you."
"Not that kind of killing." His smile is so bright and so big and his eyes are now focused on her face to the exclusion of all else. "You're the most remarkable creature," R'uen tells her. "Kiss me again. I promise this time I'll let you." Which is probably going to get another rise out of her, a non-kissing sort, but he's grinning like an idiot anyway.
"No," says Tiriana, with a sniff. "Don't try to make up /now/. What do I do that's so remarkable." And she twists her head to give him a flat look, eyes narrowed.
"Torturing that poor kid. Climbing all over me. That was hot," R'uen tells her, trying to tug her closer and maybe get that kiss. "That was really hot."
"He makes it too easy," says Tiriana. She pulls away from him then, but only for a moment; because her next move is to climb in his lap and straddle it. He /did/ mention climbing all over him, after all. "Really? You think so?" Her head tilts slightly, like she's thinking about it. The verdict must be good, because she does lean in then to kiss him as asked.
R'uen will let her hands go, then. After all, climbing on him is a good sign, plus he needs to put his own hands on her waist when she straddles his lap and bends to kiss him. It's a kiss he accepts very happily for as long as she deigns to give it. "Mmm," he sounds at the end. "I'm glad you're not a fussy holder girl."
"Yeah," agrees Tiriana, with a smirk pulling at her mouth. She pauses a beat, leans in close again. Then, "We still can't really do it here, though."
R'uen snorts. "Bullshit." But nevermind that. "How are your eggs? Nearly cooked?" he asks, jerking his chin toward the sands.
Tiriana casts a glance back over her shoulder at the eggs for a moment, half-nods. "Nearly," she tells him. "Took a few of them out to touch them. Iovniath..." She just shrugs, eyes the gold who's dozed off now, curled around her eggs. "Think even she's ready to be done with them."
"They're good enough to be let out on the sands? Touching the eggs? Must be quite a group. Even that guy you kneed in the balls?" R'uen's hands come up to run over her arms. "Promise me, Ti. No matter how pissed you get at me, you won't kick me in the balls. I want to make babies someday."
Tiriana snorts. "Not him yet. He'll probably stay out of my way a good long while now," she answers, smug. "But a handful of them. Betegal--he's good. I like him. He's about the only one. Though Whitchek's all right if he ever stops just going on and on about how we're all evil people." Which just makes her roll her eyes now. "Rest of them... They're okay, as a group. I guess. I don't know. I don't want any of them to get our eggs, though." She frowns, just for a moment, gives the eggs another long look before she lets R'uen distract her. With a lift of her brows, she wonders, "Oh, really. And have you taken this up with your girl yet?"
"I don't know why they bother involving dragons in searching candidates. They should just parade them past you for inspection, let you give them a quick interview, punch them a few times to see how they hold up..." R'uen isn't serious, at least probably not. "My girl? Yeah, I think she's amenable. She wants me pretty badly."
Tiriana, for all he's not serious, looks like she's pondering that herself. But then there's that bit about his girl, and her eyes narrow. "You think so, do you," she retorts, poking a finger in his chest. "Maybe she doesn't want to share you with a bunch of stupid wailing brats, hmm?"
"Well, I don't want to share her with a bunch of brats either. I just want to train a little army to worship her," R'uen grins confidently, knowing, maybe guessing, how lovely that might sound. "But I don't want to share her. I want to share it all with her, but there's bit of her I want to part with."
"And you want her to get fat and ugly," continues Tiriana, as though not hearing R'uen at all. "You know you never get skinny again after you pop out two or three of those things. And they don't worship you, either, not unless you completely fuck 'em up in the head and you're too normal for that. Me, maybe, but you?"
"She couldn't be fat, even if she tried. And she'd probably make it look incredibly sexy anyway." It doesn't seem to matter than she's not listening to him. R'uen just gazes up at her and puts in his two cents all along anyway. "They'll worship you when they're small and when they get big, we'll kick 'em out the door."
"Nuh-uh," Tiriana does not agree, glowering at him. But after a moment, she shifts around, to sit in his lap more than across it, and she presses back against his shoulder. Her lips purse thoughtfully. "Not a whole army," she finally says. "I mean, a couple, maybe--/maybe/--three if anything." With a pointed look, "And then I cut your balls off for sure, if not earlier."
When she settles in his lap, he's quick to start kissing her neck. "Now you want three, huh? Can I request that we resort to some other method rather than cutting off my balls? Like, just about any other method. Trev said he had some... I don't know what it was, like a salve of something. And we could go between. But I want to keep my balls." If R'uen were really nervous about his testicles, he probably wouldn't be nipping at her ear. "Three, huh?"
"I'm trying to compromise," Tiriana says, with a push at him, though it's hardly a rough one. More for show than anything else. "I don't want any, you want a whole damn army. So... a couple and--maybe three if you push it. You're not the one that has to carry the things around for nine months and then get them out." She twists half around to give him a long, flat look, though it's somewhat ruined when he keeps just trying to kiss her like that.
R'uen makes a quiet, "Hm," that is perfectly audible with his mouth so close to her ear. "So you don't want any? Not even one?" Those words come out between his teeth, which have taken gentle hold of hear lobe.
"No," says Tiriana, trying her best to pout. It's not half-working this time, no matter how much she crosses her arms and juts out her lower lip. "I don't like kids. I don't know why /you're/ so desperate to have a shitload of them, either."
R'uen lets her ear go, plants one more kiss on her throat before he settles his head more comfortably against her shoulder. "I'm not desperate. I just figure it'll take me years to convince you, so I might as well get started. Right now, all I want is to be here with you. To have the four of us together, the way it was supposed to be."
Tiriana, settled in against him, gives up sulking in favor of pulling his arms around her. After all, there's nobody around but Iovniath to see if she gets a little mushy now. "Yeah, well. It's been... five or something?" she says, casting a glance sideways at him. "But I refuse to go any higher, ever. Okay? Just how many /is/ a damn army, anyway?"
Tonight, feeling her arms around him and the way she softens with no one looking, R'uen is ready to give up on kids altogether. "I don't care. You know that, right? Kids or no kids, one, three, ten kids. I don't care." His own arms close snugly about her waist, drawing her against him.
"None? One?" says Tiriana, and--does she sound almost a little disappointed that he gives in just like that? "You'd really settle for just one." She frowns at him, skeptical.
"I want you," R'uen tries to explain. "I want you, I've got you. Everything else is just icing. You figure out what you want, what you really want, and that's what we'll do. I just don't want you say no just because you think that's what a tough girl would do or because it would make your daddy proud. If you want three, we'll have three. And hopefully they'll all look like me, so we know they're mine, you wild hussy." See, somewhere along the line, he started to smirk again, and now he bites playfully at her shoulder.
"Fuck you," Tiriana retorts, and what might be a nice, quiet, intimate moment is ruined by her shoving away from him, trying to get to her feet on her own again. Of course, she's also smiling the whole time, so make of that what you will. "Let's go home."
R'uen lets her up, and he gets up too. "Does this mean you -do- want three kids? Or a whole army? You just prefer to hide behind me wanting them?" They could walk home hand in hand, or he could sweep her off her feet, but instead, he turns his back toward her and hunkers down with is arms back, the universal piggy-back position. "Hop on."
"No!" says Tiriana, punching at him one more time. "I don't. You just said you did, and... I try to be a nice, agreeable sort of person." Even her ego won't let her say that with a straight fact, though, and her mouth twitches until ducks her head, steps around him to eye that position. "That is not befitting of a Weyrwoman."
"Neither are any of the positions you'll be in when we get home. Just hop on already." R'uen does make a good point. "I do want kids. I hope you'll want them. As long as you don't love them more than me."
"That doesn't involve traipsing across the bowl, either," Tiriana says, with a stubborn little scowl. But nevertheless, she sighs and caves, climbing onto his back with her arms wrapping tight on his throat. "I won't."
R'uen hefts her up, and as soon as they're clear of the benches, spins her around. It's a threat, you see, so that she'll give the right answer. "Promise?"
That, of course, just makes Tiriana clutch tighter, face buried against his shoulder. "Stop, stop! Stop iiit," she whines. "Somebody's going to walk in, I know it. I /promise/."
"If they do, and they say anything, I'll haul you over so you can punch them. Or kick 'em in the nuts. Okay?" But R'uen doesn't really wait for an answer. He's on his way toward the sands with every intention of cutting through and sparing her the public trek across the bowl. He turns his head try to catch a glimpse of her over his shoulder. "Maybe three." Maybe she's talked him into it.
Begrudgingly, Tiriana agrees, "Okay. I'll kick 'em all." She sighs again, but doesn't sound too put out as they set off toward home. Except-- "How many did you /really/ want? Seriously, R'uen."
Seriously, R'uen? Who is this girl on his back? "I can't say I've ever really thought about having more than one," Rev admits. "What would we do with another one? What would we do with the first one if we had another one? But it could be fun. I'm game if you are. We can have as many as you want. We'll just figure it out as we go."
And that, of course, just makes Tiriana dig her fist into his side again, nevermind he's the one holding her up. "You never even fucking /thought/ about it?" she exclaims, glaring. "Reeev!" And thus echo her cries, all the way back to the weyr.
When: Day 12, Month 11, Turn 19
Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
What: R'uen's reproductive prospects go up; Isziyo's go way... way... way down.
Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.
The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
Contents:
Isziyo
Obvious exits:
Sands Bowl
It may be raining, outside, but Isziyo's been here for a while, parked at the lowest row, dangling his hands over the railing and gazing at the sand- and eggs, arranged so artistically. His expression is pensive, and his thoughts are obviously inward. The young man doesn't stir, seemingly deep in whatever it is that he's contemplating.
Tiriana, too, has been here for a while; byproduct of her gold on the sands. Iovniath has again spent the day fussing with her eggs, carefully turning each one over, while Tiriana loiters around with her, trying to oil her in the process. Eventually, both of them are finished, or exasperated with the other, and while Iovniath goes to sleep, Tiriana cleans up and trudges back up the steps to the galleries.
Isziyo's gaze sharpens on the goldrider ascending the steps, though not too much; he's the visage of a sleepy, broody hawk than a hunting peregrine, of current state. He doesn't say anything - not yet - but shifts slightly on his chair, chin turning steadily to keep track of the weyrwoman. He's not about to risk her wrath... yet.
It's cold outside. And wet. And for some reason, Whitchek has trudged through it anyway, evidently, just to come see the eggs. Totally. There could be no other reason why he would be out on an evening like this. But, though half-frozen and soaked, when he wanders into the galleries he's totally smiling. Absolutely beatific. It could be considered terrifying, by some.
Faced with a pair of candidates, Tiriana glances back and forth between Isziyo and Whitchek for a moment. Then she pauses on the stairs, one arm leaned on the railing. And apparently Whitchek is deamed the easier target, because it's him and his goofy smile that earns her raised brows. "What, you just get laid or something?" she asks.
Isziyo ignores Whitchek, because that is what he is good at. Well, until Tiriana acknowledges the brat. Dammit. "Him? Laid? His precious morals would eat him alive if he so much as took off a girl's bra," Isziyo rumbles his opinion of the situation with a sidling look to Whit, mockery evident in his eyes.
Beatific, damn it. *Beatific*. That means saintly. And Whitchek is going to maintain this sainthood business if it kills him, although for a split second it looks like the question might, like he's possibly actually forgotten how to breathe. But, well, where he comes from people don't ask questions like that. More smiling. He sits himself down on a stone bench. Smiles. "That," he says to Isziyo, bypassing the Weyrwoman's question entirely, "is entirely untrue. Provided it were done within the bounds of formal commitment."
"So... did you or didn't you?" Tiriana wonders for clarification purposes. She eyes Whitchek a moment longer, then slides into a seat near the two boys. "Formal commitment... What kind of guy are you? That's just sad. You know the ones that talk a lot about commitments and all that?" she remarks, with a pointed look not for Whitchek, but for Isziyo. "The ones who can't get any sex at all."
"Instead of collecting a black eye from you, can I give him one instead? Please?" Isziyo honest-to-Faranth questions Tiriana, with a pleading note to his bass rumble. "Pretty please. I'll do something really nice for you if you let me." There's a thoughtful pause, and he tacks on, "Ma'am," nearly as an afterthought. After her question, the large young man rearranges himself into a careless sprawl against the bench, and a smirk touches at the corners of his lips. "Poor kid. Can't get any sex, eh? Probably why you've always been so damned uppity."
"A gentleman," says Whitchek to the Weyrwoman. And smiles. And smiles. If it wasn't creepy before, it's definitely to the point of creepy now. He tries to bite it back, obviously, but it's just not working. He braces his arms with his palms flat on the stone bench. "What I could get is none of your business. And I would sorely like to see you try, Isziyo. Sorely."
"Candidates can't fight," Tiriana answers, with a supercilious curl of her lip. "I'll throw you out if you hit him. That's my right." And nothing pleases her more than special privileges. "Besides, how often do /you/ get laid, anyway? That hair," or lack thereof. Tiriana eyes his bald head for a long moment, pointedly. "It's gross. What are you trying to hide, that you're losing it all already?"
"Kid, I'm sorry. But you're a tiny little thing compared to me. Frail. Like an old lady," Isz patronizingly explains to Whitchek, as if he's either too young or too old to truly understand the statement. Tiri's response, however, makes him scowl momentarily. Crazy b-- "Weyrwoman Tiriana, when I want it, I get it." Typically. And then there's a sigh. The head. It's a love or a hate thing. He knows this by now. "I shave it off. Ma'am. It doesn't look weird, it just... gets in my way. Was easier, in the stables, to not have hair. Runners try to chew it, half the time, you know." Matter-of-fact. And then, again, as an afterthought, another, "Ma'am."
"Yeah, and N'thei couldn't hit me until I let him," Whitchek points out, all smugness and still smiles. "Please. You spend a lifetime shoveling manure and you think it gets you somewhere?" Smiling, smiling. The kind of point where if you had to do it willingly your face would hurt for hours after. "But by all means, Weyrwoman," in deferrment to Tiriana, if it can be called that. "It can wait."
"Maybe if you were /competent/ with them," Tiriana sneers. "I used to be a stablehand, you know. --Watch it." The latter to Whitchek, when he insults their mutual profession. But she leans back, her mouth pursing up as she studies the two men. "Of course, if you'd like to duke it out, go right ahead. Just hand me your knots and then get out of my galleries, and have at it." Smirk.
Isziyo rolls his eyes at Whitchek-the-wuss. "Let me guess. Someone gave you fellis so you wouldn't feel it when she hit you." He scoots over closer to Tiriana, and - after ignoring her request for both of their knots - quite levelly states, "I was going to come on to you, ask you if you wanted to go somewhere quiet," he rather earnestly tells the weyrwoman. (He has a death wish.) "You're beautiful, and intelligent, and I feel myself falling for you the more I sit and watch you." This may be going over the top. Carry on. "But I realize that you belong to another, and while that hurts me, I understand." He's so deadpan. Is he for real? He's a walking soap-opera at this point, otherwise! "Please, put me out of my misery." He opens his broad, big paws of hands wide, extends them both out to the side, and closes his eyes, offering his left eye for the 'inevitable' shot. Or so he hopes.
Eyes flicker between Tiriana and Isziyo at first. "Fellis? No. No, no." Beaming, still. And, if possible, moreso as Isziyo starts in on the flattery. "Oh, come *on*. Seriously? This is just embarrassing." Not that he's going to stop it from happening, oh, no. He's just going to spectate. And smile.
Tiriana is annoyed, sure. Her mouth tightens up, and she eyes Isziyo for a long moment. And she gets up, because it's much easier to get the levereage to punch somebody from that position. And then instead of socking him one in the eye, she aims a knee hard at his groin while his eyes are closed.
All the breath leaves Isziyo's lungs in a choked wheeze, and he falls sideways, curling into a fetal ball. Pain. Lots... of pain.
The smile actually falters for a moment--it has to, because it's actually surprisingly difficult to burst out laughing when you're grinning like that. Whitchek does, however, limit it to a few choked guffaws. "You see? Told you."
"Oops," Tiriana says, dangerously saccharine. "I missed. Here, let me try again." Her smile is smug as she watches Isziyo curl up on himself and wheeze, though at least she doesn't laugh at him like Whitchek.
Isziyo flips Whitchek the bird, but he's too intent on the burning agony of his manbits to really notice if Tiri swings on him or not. He's really ignoring her. Really. He's still curled about himself, not saying anything. Hell, he's probably not /breathing/ yet.
"So," Whitchek finally says, utterly ignoring the admittedly delightful sight of Isziyo in the fetal position. "So, you know, I was going to come and just ask if we were supposed to be clever or if you really wanted to hit somebody," he offers to the Weyrwoman. "I'm not sure--" He chokes back another laugh. "I'm not sure, given this, which the answer actually is."
Tiriana has at least some mercy in her heart, because she doesn't punch Isziyo again. Instead, she reseats herself almost primly, hands folding in her lap while she turns a smile on Whitchek. "I don't mind clever people," she says. "I just really hate people that think they're clever." And she shoots a look back at the other candidate, snickering now, just a touch. "Do /you/ want me to punch you now?" Let's see how brave this one is now!
Isziyo may be shakey, but damned if he doesn't wobble his way back upright, both hands cupped around the boys protectively. And he eyes Tiriana, a long moment, unreadable expression in dark eyes - and extends his chin. "Please," he roughly wheezes. "Ma'am." Is he suicidal? Probably.
A strange moment of silence. Still smiling, but it's finally muted a little bit. "If you'd prefer that, I think you still owe me one," Whitchek blithely offers to the Weyrwoman. "But if you've gotten it out of your system," he pats a pocket, pulls out a sheet of folded paper, only a little damp yet, and a stick of charcoal wrapped in a bit of leather. "If you'll settle for giving me your autograph, I'll have two of what I need." Sideways glance at Isziyo. "When you're done, of course."
Suicidal? Well. That seems to get Isziyo a lot further with Tiriana than flattery, which probably says quite a lot about her character. So, obligingly, this time she doesn't pull her punch at all, and knocks him a good one right in the face. She's got a good strong arm, and afterward smirks at the unfortunate candidate, flexing her hand. "I don't think it really ever gets out of my system," she tells Whitchek, conversationally; like she isn't totally beating up on somebody else. "Now. My what?"
Kerthunk. Isz goes toppling over, ass over teakettle. THWUMP. That's the sound of him hitting the floor. What? Don't look at him like that. That punch has a kick to it. So, with the remainder of his pride, Isziyo straightens, feeling cautiously at his right eye - yeah, that's gonna leave a mark - and heads towards the stairs. He pauses, half turns, and blinks once. "Thank you," he briefly states to Tiriana, ignores the creepily smiling Whit, and heads down. Time to go to bed. Mission accomplished.
Isziyo heads down a short set of stairs to the bowl.
Isziyo has left.
"Signature," says Whitchek, stepping over closer, still giving Isziyo a wide berth as he leaves. "Just here," indicates, offers her the paper and charcoal. Smiles. Sits again, closer to the Weyrwoman this time. Not close, of course. Just... in more general proximity. "Gotta admit, nothing quite like that. Nothing. He's been on my ass since we met, I think." Swearing. In front of the Weyrwoman. Well, after that, she's definitely out of 'lady' territory for good.
"What a loser," says Tiriana, with a snicker as Isziyo finally beats a retreat. "Pathetic." But with a shake of her head, she turns back to Whitchek, eyes him as she takes the paper. She scribbles out a T, and then, just as she's about to add the next letter, she catches on. "Ohh," she says, with a smirk. "You're a clever one, too, huh. What if I don't spell it like that?"
Bit of a shrug. "You do. Checked," offers up Whitchek. "I do have... half a brain." Unlike, possibly, certain other people. "Just looking to spare you the wear and tear on your hand. Not like I haven't been hit before. You remember." He sits back, waits, grins. "Besides, for that, I want some kind of memento, and I don't think Isziyo's gonna do me the honor."
R'uen has arrived.
"Smart," says Tiriana, and so, obligingly, she finishes writing out her name for him in her left-handed scrawl. "There. Two i's, just for you," she says, holding the paper at arm's length to eye her signature for a moment. Then she leans over to pass it to Whitchek, where he sits just a little ways from her in the galleries. "A memento," she says then. "Of... me kicking him in the balls. Take it you two aren't friends, then."
The candidate takes the paper back, looks at it admiringly, folds it carefully again and puts it away. "Not so much friends as... sort of the opposite of friends," reflects Whitchek. "Only not exactly enemies because that would require more effort than it's worth. I avoid him. He likes to be vaguely obnoxious at meals." A shrug. "But that was worth being there for, yeah."
Now, if someone was paying attention, she might be aware that the frequently visiting Fortian bronze has arrived, but that someone might be too busy with eggs. And even if that someone was paying attention, that doesn't mean she would necessarily clue other someone's in. And so, whether or not Tiriana is at all prepared, R'uen appears at the entrance to the galleries, pausing just a moment to see that she's actually in here before he takes to the steps. It's enough time to overhear just a smidge. "What about balls?" It's a classy entrance.
"What, he chew with his mouth open or something?" Tiriana asks, skeptical. She shoots a sideways look at Whitchek, then asks, "Are you going to go around bragging about how you outsmarted me or something? So the next clever wannabe tries to pull the same stunt. I'm just waiting for one of them to try Betegal's thing, get a fake black eye with kohl. Going to write F-U-C-K-M-E across their forehead and send 'em out into--the world." She breaks off abruptly as she catches sight of R'uen, surprised expression declaring her lack of forewarning. "Rev!" she calls, mouth quirking into a broad, pleased grin. "I kicked one of the candidates in them."
"Wasn't planning on it," says Whitchek with slightly quirked eyebrows. "Hardly think of it as outsmarting. Figure if you wanted to hit me, you'd have done it already. Or," he adds, "may yet." Just to cover all the bases, there. He notes the arrival of the bronzerider with a nod but not much else; that kind of pleasure from Tiriana is not apt to be found often, and a reasonable person might question whether it's a good thing.
"Ah, that's one of my favorite faces," R'uen grins right back when he sees her surpise turn to that smug smile. With his boots heavy on the stairs under his lazy stride, he reaches the pair. "You kicked..." He laughs. Nice. "Not this one here, right?" A hand goes out to the young man who does not appear doubled over in debilitating pain and thus is probably not the candidate she's been abusing. "R'uen."
"No, the other one," says Tiriana, beaming as much as Whitchek was earlier. "Probably passed him on the way in. The big limping one. Wimp. He tried flirting with me." And she turns an expectant look on R'uen, like she expects him to go finish beating up on poor Isziyo for her. To Whitchek, "I figure either they need to man up and just ask for one, or come up with some way around it if they're not man enough to take that." Which Whitchek apparently isn't, to judge by the look she casts over him now. "So I won't hit you. For now."
Point of pride for Whitchek: "Madilla--that's my girl," he adds for R'uen's benefit, Whitchek now finally at the point where he can properly remember that oh, yes, he does have a girl, "Madilla wasn't so hot on the idea of hitting." Shrug. What can you do? Women. Only as obvious as the gesture is, it doesn't seen to encompass the Weyrwoman anymore. "Hell of a thing," he offers up. "Joy to see it. He's an ass." A shake of the offered hand. "Whitchek."
R'uen knows he's supposed to want to go beat up that Isziyo fellow just for flirting with Tiriana, which is exactly why he says: "Who could blame him? And he takes one in the nuts. Poor guy." Not that he seems at all broken up about it. "Whitchek. Nice to meet you. So you're not a fan of his either?" He eyes the candidate and then takes himself a comfortable seat, offering a different sort of hand toward Tiriana as he asks the young man, "What would you do if he was flirting with your girl. Madilla, you said."
Tiriana narrows her eyes at R'uen's lack of support for her, but when he sits down, she's still quick to slide over that way and lean up against him. Wiggling around to make herself comfortable, if not him necessarily, she turns another look on Whitchek and then snickers. "Nothing, I bet," she answers for him. "It's not like he's doing anything else for her now, am I right?"
"I think we have an understanding," muses Whitchek, still a little smile, but voice surprisingly flat. "Isziyo and I. He doesn't try to talk to her, I don't have to turn in my knot." But then the smile broadens again. "But that, of course, is us. Madilla and me, we're *Holders*, you understand," to R'uen. Implied, of course, that Tiriana obviously doesn't. Never mind the candidate's knot.
"Really?" R'uen asks Whitchek with some surprise, seeming rather unaware that Tiriana's cozying up to his side. "He looked pretty big, if that was the guy I passed. Does he... need an understanding with you?" As opposed to just taking the girl and squashing Whitchek into a pulp. But the bronzerider makes a big show of understanding, oh yes he does. "Ahh. Holders. Of course. I come from the Woodcraft myself," he adds in, putting a hand on Tiriana's knee. "Not quite the same, though, I'd imagine."
"Weyrbred," says Tiriana. And as if to prove it, or maybe just to get attention since R'uen's trying to pretend not to notice her cuddling up, she twists around to make him kiss her instead. Demanding woman, she is. "And I can take care of myself. Should teach Madilla how to, too, so she's not stuck relying on /you/ to defend her honor. Not that that's a bad plan, because I don't think you're ever going to do anything to... you know. Besmirch it, or whatever you people say." She makes an airy gesture for the word.
Funny how people always bring that up. Whitchek lets out a small sigh. "You know, height isn't everything," he says with a scowl. "Not that I have the least thought that she'd be taken in by such a thing," added, trying to avoid looking much at this whole kissing business. Look, hey, eggs. "No, I don't imagine it's the same. And I really don't want Madilla turning into..." Anything like Tiriana whatsoever?
R'uen goes from surprised, to pleased and letting a hand tug Tiriana's neck, to gently pushing her away. "Hey, hey," he scolds without any real meaning. "Not in front of the Holder." He turns to give her his cheek, or rather, to tap the side of his head. "Just whisper filthy things in my ear so he doesn't have to listen." Though he might smirk deeply for all of Tiriana's brazen behavior, when he turns back to Whitchek it's with a more serious expresson. "I understand that. Don't want her running around like a hussy, making you worry, stuff like that. That much I understand." But wait... Rev looks back at the goldrider and snerks. "You said 'besmirch'." He shakes his head at her and tries not to crack up.
"True," Tiriana will give that point to Whitchek, regarding the size difference. "And he's not that tough. I took him out fast. Usually they put up a little more fight than that." But then, how quickly she goes from kissing to punching, digging her fist in against R'uen's side. "Shut up, I don't know what holders say," she says, pouting for a moment. "And don't you push /me/ away. He ought to see it, get.. desensitized. It's not like we're fucking right here in front of him." Beat. "Although we /could/," and she shoots another smirk at Whitchek, just to see what kind of reaction she can goad.
That's Whitchek's cue not to hang around too long. Just in case. "Besmirch is a perfectly good word," he offers up. "I don't think she's going to be running around like a... hussy. I just don't want her getting jaded." A glance back at the two riders. But just a glance; obviously what they *are* doing is plenty. Hey, as far as public behavior goes, for Whitchek, holding hands is racy. "I think I'd best be headed back. I think it's stopped raining, finally."
"Ow!" R'uen makes a big show of his pained face when Tiriana puts her fist in his side. He reaches to snag her wrist and hold her back a bit. "She's just trying to push your buttons, you know," he tells the candidate with a sigh, rather disappointed to see him chased off so quickly. "And, well, she might be a filthy weyrbrat, but I'm not." He's totally going to get beat up for that, and so he does try to have control of both those fists, while he grins in anticipation of her reaction.
"Oh, did we scare you off, Whitchek?" Tiriana wonders, head tilting oh-so-innocently. "I should stop in and see her again sometime. Madilla I haven't been by in a while." And not nearly so subtly, and with a pasted-on sweet smile, she tries elbowing R'uen while he holds on to her. In a loud whisper, "Shut up, you don't go telling people that. Then it doesn't work."
The response sounds almost surprised. "I know," says Whitchek. "Doesn't make it appropriate behavior, though." He stands, pats his pocket to be sure that bit of paper is still there, nods to them both. "Nice to meet you, R'uen," first. Then: "Thank you, Weyrwoman." Presumably not for the talk of Madilla, of course. He heads for the exit, then, and the ending of a terrific day.
Whitchek goes home.
Whitchek has left.
"Good to meet you, too. And hey, I am sorry about this one here," R'uen calls as Whitchek moves away. "Stick with your Holder girl. These weyrbrats are too much trouble." Of course, then he turns back to Tiriana to let out one of those bright boyish laughs. "You kill me," he tells her, still not letting go of her hands.
For that, Tiriana tries elbowing again, still pouty-faced. "I do not," she says, as she leans back against him again, even as he holds her back from hitting. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Stone cold dump-you-between dead. I haven't done anything to you."
"Not that kind of killing." His smile is so bright and so big and his eyes are now focused on her face to the exclusion of all else. "You're the most remarkable creature," R'uen tells her. "Kiss me again. I promise this time I'll let you." Which is probably going to get another rise out of her, a non-kissing sort, but he's grinning like an idiot anyway.
"No," says Tiriana, with a sniff. "Don't try to make up /now/. What do I do that's so remarkable." And she twists her head to give him a flat look, eyes narrowed.
"Torturing that poor kid. Climbing all over me. That was hot," R'uen tells her, trying to tug her closer and maybe get that kiss. "That was really hot."
"He makes it too easy," says Tiriana. She pulls away from him then, but only for a moment; because her next move is to climb in his lap and straddle it. He /did/ mention climbing all over him, after all. "Really? You think so?" Her head tilts slightly, like she's thinking about it. The verdict must be good, because she does lean in then to kiss him as asked.
R'uen will let her hands go, then. After all, climbing on him is a good sign, plus he needs to put his own hands on her waist when she straddles his lap and bends to kiss him. It's a kiss he accepts very happily for as long as she deigns to give it. "Mmm," he sounds at the end. "I'm glad you're not a fussy holder girl."
"Yeah," agrees Tiriana, with a smirk pulling at her mouth. She pauses a beat, leans in close again. Then, "We still can't really do it here, though."
R'uen snorts. "Bullshit." But nevermind that. "How are your eggs? Nearly cooked?" he asks, jerking his chin toward the sands.
Tiriana casts a glance back over her shoulder at the eggs for a moment, half-nods. "Nearly," she tells him. "Took a few of them out to touch them. Iovniath..." She just shrugs, eyes the gold who's dozed off now, curled around her eggs. "Think even she's ready to be done with them."
"They're good enough to be let out on the sands? Touching the eggs? Must be quite a group. Even that guy you kneed in the balls?" R'uen's hands come up to run over her arms. "Promise me, Ti. No matter how pissed you get at me, you won't kick me in the balls. I want to make babies someday."
Tiriana snorts. "Not him yet. He'll probably stay out of my way a good long while now," she answers, smug. "But a handful of them. Betegal--he's good. I like him. He's about the only one. Though Whitchek's all right if he ever stops just going on and on about how we're all evil people." Which just makes her roll her eyes now. "Rest of them... They're okay, as a group. I guess. I don't know. I don't want any of them to get our eggs, though." She frowns, just for a moment, gives the eggs another long look before she lets R'uen distract her. With a lift of her brows, she wonders, "Oh, really. And have you taken this up with your girl yet?"
"I don't know why they bother involving dragons in searching candidates. They should just parade them past you for inspection, let you give them a quick interview, punch them a few times to see how they hold up..." R'uen isn't serious, at least probably not. "My girl? Yeah, I think she's amenable. She wants me pretty badly."
Tiriana, for all he's not serious, looks like she's pondering that herself. But then there's that bit about his girl, and her eyes narrow. "You think so, do you," she retorts, poking a finger in his chest. "Maybe she doesn't want to share you with a bunch of stupid wailing brats, hmm?"
"Well, I don't want to share her with a bunch of brats either. I just want to train a little army to worship her," R'uen grins confidently, knowing, maybe guessing, how lovely that might sound. "But I don't want to share her. I want to share it all with her, but there's bit of her I want to part with."
"And you want her to get fat and ugly," continues Tiriana, as though not hearing R'uen at all. "You know you never get skinny again after you pop out two or three of those things. And they don't worship you, either, not unless you completely fuck 'em up in the head and you're too normal for that. Me, maybe, but you?"
"She couldn't be fat, even if she tried. And she'd probably make it look incredibly sexy anyway." It doesn't seem to matter than she's not listening to him. R'uen just gazes up at her and puts in his two cents all along anyway. "They'll worship you when they're small and when they get big, we'll kick 'em out the door."
"Nuh-uh," Tiriana does not agree, glowering at him. But after a moment, she shifts around, to sit in his lap more than across it, and she presses back against his shoulder. Her lips purse thoughtfully. "Not a whole army," she finally says. "I mean, a couple, maybe--/maybe/--three if anything." With a pointed look, "And then I cut your balls off for sure, if not earlier."
When she settles in his lap, he's quick to start kissing her neck. "Now you want three, huh? Can I request that we resort to some other method rather than cutting off my balls? Like, just about any other method. Trev said he had some... I don't know what it was, like a salve of something. And we could go between. But I want to keep my balls." If R'uen were really nervous about his testicles, he probably wouldn't be nipping at her ear. "Three, huh?"
"I'm trying to compromise," Tiriana says, with a push at him, though it's hardly a rough one. More for show than anything else. "I don't want any, you want a whole damn army. So... a couple and--maybe three if you push it. You're not the one that has to carry the things around for nine months and then get them out." She twists half around to give him a long, flat look, though it's somewhat ruined when he keeps just trying to kiss her like that.
R'uen makes a quiet, "Hm," that is perfectly audible with his mouth so close to her ear. "So you don't want any? Not even one?" Those words come out between his teeth, which have taken gentle hold of hear lobe.
"No," says Tiriana, trying her best to pout. It's not half-working this time, no matter how much she crosses her arms and juts out her lower lip. "I don't like kids. I don't know why /you're/ so desperate to have a shitload of them, either."
R'uen lets her ear go, plants one more kiss on her throat before he settles his head more comfortably against her shoulder. "I'm not desperate. I just figure it'll take me years to convince you, so I might as well get started. Right now, all I want is to be here with you. To have the four of us together, the way it was supposed to be."
Tiriana, settled in against him, gives up sulking in favor of pulling his arms around her. After all, there's nobody around but Iovniath to see if she gets a little mushy now. "Yeah, well. It's been... five or something?" she says, casting a glance sideways at him. "But I refuse to go any higher, ever. Okay? Just how many /is/ a damn army, anyway?"
Tonight, feeling her arms around him and the way she softens with no one looking, R'uen is ready to give up on kids altogether. "I don't care. You know that, right? Kids or no kids, one, three, ten kids. I don't care." His own arms close snugly about her waist, drawing her against him.
"None? One?" says Tiriana, and--does she sound almost a little disappointed that he gives in just like that? "You'd really settle for just one." She frowns at him, skeptical.
"I want you," R'uen tries to explain. "I want you, I've got you. Everything else is just icing. You figure out what you want, what you really want, and that's what we'll do. I just don't want you say no just because you think that's what a tough girl would do or because it would make your daddy proud. If you want three, we'll have three. And hopefully they'll all look like me, so we know they're mine, you wild hussy." See, somewhere along the line, he started to smirk again, and now he bites playfully at her shoulder.
"Fuck you," Tiriana retorts, and what might be a nice, quiet, intimate moment is ruined by her shoving away from him, trying to get to her feet on her own again. Of course, she's also smiling the whole time, so make of that what you will. "Let's go home."
R'uen lets her up, and he gets up too. "Does this mean you -do- want three kids? Or a whole army? You just prefer to hide behind me wanting them?" They could walk home hand in hand, or he could sweep her off her feet, but instead, he turns his back toward her and hunkers down with is arms back, the universal piggy-back position. "Hop on."
"No!" says Tiriana, punching at him one more time. "I don't. You just said you did, and... I try to be a nice, agreeable sort of person." Even her ego won't let her say that with a straight fact, though, and her mouth twitches until ducks her head, steps around him to eye that position. "That is not befitting of a Weyrwoman."
"Neither are any of the positions you'll be in when we get home. Just hop on already." R'uen does make a good point. "I do want kids. I hope you'll want them. As long as you don't love them more than me."
"That doesn't involve traipsing across the bowl, either," Tiriana says, with a stubborn little scowl. But nevertheless, she sighs and caves, climbing onto his back with her arms wrapping tight on his throat. "I won't."
R'uen hefts her up, and as soon as they're clear of the benches, spins her around. It's a threat, you see, so that she'll give the right answer. "Promise?"
That, of course, just makes Tiriana clutch tighter, face buried against his shoulder. "Stop, stop! Stop iiit," she whines. "Somebody's going to walk in, I know it. I /promise/."
"If they do, and they say anything, I'll haul you over so you can punch them. Or kick 'em in the nuts. Okay?" But R'uen doesn't really wait for an answer. He's on his way toward the sands with every intention of cutting through and sparing her the public trek across the bowl. He turns his head try to catch a glimpse of her over his shoulder. "Maybe three." Maybe she's talked him into it.
Begrudgingly, Tiriana agrees, "Okay. I'll kick 'em all." She sighs again, but doesn't sound too put out as they set off toward home. Except-- "How many did you /really/ want? Seriously, R'uen."
Seriously, R'uen? Who is this girl on his back? "I can't say I've ever really thought about having more than one," Rev admits. "What would we do with another one? What would we do with the first one if we had another one? But it could be fun. I'm game if you are. We can have as many as you want. We'll just figure it out as we go."
And that, of course, just makes Tiriana dig her fist into his side again, nevermind he's the one holding her up. "You never even fucking /thought/ about it?" she exclaims, glaring. "Reeev!" And thus echo her cries, all the way back to the weyr.