Anger
The scoop: T'ral is in an impressive snit when he's finished the conversation with R'vain that features in my last posted scene. Ginella comes home, he explains why, and fireworks ensue. He explains why he's upset/angry/insert manly adjective here about his conversation with the Weyrleader, and says some things that do not reflect the view of his player.
The wings are assembling around their tables down in the living cavern, talking up a storm of sound as they exchange stories, laughter, rumours. T'ral's bulk is conspicuously missing from his wing's table, leaving considerably more room down one side of it. His whereabouts are no mystery -- Darageth still wears his harness, and lounges on his ledge, watching night fall. His rider is within, seated at the table with a bottle and a glass.
Ginella showed up for dinner as usual, and was surprised to find T'ral not present. She ate with some fellow students, isntead, finishing quickly and heading up to the weyr. Aneleth lands to let her off, then resituates so as to not disturb the brown. "Tiv?" the goldrider calls as she enters, "I was looking for you at dinner..." She spots him with a bottle, and frowns, "Where were you?"
He waits until she spots her, and then he leans forward to wrap a hand around the bottle -- it's one of D'ven's -- and pour himself a glass. "I wasn't feeling sociable," he replies shortly, glancing up to her only briefly, then back down to where he's pouring his generous drink.
Ginella frowns again, and slips off her sandals by the door, heading across the room to pull out the chair across from him and sit down. "What's the matter?" she asks, eyeing that glass as he fills it.
"This is one of those conversations which I know can't go well for me, no matter which way I attack it," T'ral replies. "I don't tell you, I'm going to get those eyes of yours. I do tell you, I'm going to get another fucking lecture out of you about it, and I am really not in the mood." He lifts his glass, and studies it. "You don't have homework to do?"
Ginella starts, and blinks, and reddens a little, under the hint of sunburn already coloring her cheeks. She was about to sit down, but doesn't quite, now, leaning on the table, instead. She doesn't really bother to hide her expression from him, surprised and hurt, and straightens again, eyes down, "I do have a little, I wasn't..." She fumbles a little; it's been a while since they did this, "It's so nice out tonight. I was going to let it wait, see if you wanted to
go out. Guess not."
"Really, not," T'ral confirms. "Weyrleader had me down there again, for whatever it is he wants when he does that." The drink disappears in the wake of those words, downed in one long swallow. He sets the glass down slowly, and looks past her, towards the entrance of the weyr.
"And... it went poorly?" Ginny prompts, smoothing her skirt with a hand as she watches T'ral drain the liquor from his glass.
"It went extremely bloody poorly," T'ral replies souly. "I think," he adds, relinquishing his glass entirely, and leaning back in his chair. "Damned if I know. How long do you have left at Caucus? A turn?"
Ginny blinks again, surprised by the question, and nods, "A turn, right-- What happened with R'vain?" she asks, brows drawn somewhat together, "How could it go that poorly, but you're not sure? Did he say something?"
"Of course he said something," T'ral snaps, his eyes leaving the weyr entrance and abruptly moving back to her. "He doesn't just haul me down there to look at my pretty face. He wanted to know what you think of what's happening, what D'ven thinks, what all the people he doesn't want to ask think. What M'arik things of it, what you think of M'arik, what everybody thinks of everybody else, as far as I know."
Ginny's frown grows a little harder, a little more set, as T'ral snaps, and lips press together, resisting the urge to retort. She listens, instead, and looks ready to roll her eyes, instead exhaling through her nose and turning her gaze back to the brownrider, "And what did you say?"
"I said that we all thought what everybody else thinks, and that I didn't know what M'arik thinks, and that I wouldn't be reporting on the whole lot to M'arik, because I answer to my own Weyrleader," T'ral replies, reaching abruptly for the bottle again. "I repeated it, I was trying to say -- and he said yes, that I had said that." The brownrider's face is good natured, so suited to laughing, but just now he wears his frown easily, and consistently. "He didn't take it, Ginny. So that's that. More'n three turns here, and I've got my answer. Get your turn finished, go back to Benden. Which I will, he'll have me to make you happy."
Ginella frowns, shaking her head a little. "So, he acknowledged that he had heard you, and that he already knew that you didn't answer to M'arik," she pauses a second, to let that sink in before asking, "How is that bad?" She's leaning against the back of the chair, now, still watching him, not entirely impressed, it seems, with this whole show of sullenness. "Besides, you agreed you'd come back to Benden anyways."
"No," T'ral disagrees, throwing up a hand to contradict her. "I tried to offer him my word, while I'm here. Yes, he already had it, but that's not the point. He wouldn't take it. He didn't say, 'Yes, you are my man'. He said 'Yes, so you said'. It's a deflection. Come on, you know this." His Bitran accent comes out now, clipped, as it always is when he's agitated, and he refills his glass with a splash. "I know I'm coming back to Benden. Now more than ever, I know that. I wanted to think I wasn't just in waiting while I was here. That I was part of Reaches."
"Do men actually say that?" Ginella asks, making a bit of a face as she repeats, "'You are my man'? Really?" She is not really taking this seriously enough, is she? She realizes and stops herself after that remark slips out, nodding along, "Yes, right, he deflected, okay. So, maybe you're not his man, his favorite, whatever. What does it matter? Just because the Weyrleader doesn't entirely trust you doesn't mean you're not part of the weyr here, that you haven't done anything or meant anything. You're part of your wing, you've done good things, and you're headed back to Benden anyways. I'd think this would just make leaving easier, and that would be a good thing."
"Of course they don't fucking well say..." T'ral's reply is prompt and snapped, the words spat out in the clipped tone that only comes with his anger. His glass is set down on the table, too heavily, and what he's poured slops over the edges. "Forget it. I told you this was a bad conversation to have. Women see this sort of thing completely differently, you just don't have the same -- I can't expect you to understand." He shoves his chair back, and comes to his feet, scowling. "I'm going out."
"Good, that'd sound stupid," Ginella replies, not quite a snap. Eyes go immediately to the spilled liquid, and lips press together before she looks up again, nostrils flaring, "What? Concept of loyalty? What were you going to say?" He stands and claims to be leaving, and she shakes her head, stepping between him and the door, "No, you said before you didn't want to go out, and I want to hear this. What about this am I incapable of understanding purely because I'm a woman, rather than because-- of anything else?"
T'ral's voice drops abruptly, so that he speaks in calm, measured tones, stepping away from his chair. "If I didn't want to go out before, I certainly don't want to stay now. Nor do I want to have this conversation with you right now. I don't need to talk about what women are or are not, and I don't need you bringing your Caucus ideas into this tonight. I'm going out."
His tone changes, and Ginny's posture shifts faintly, tightening as he speaks. Her mouth opens, then shuts with a click of teeth as cheeks redden. For a moment, she seems almost about to speak again, but she doesn't. Instead, after a beat, she steps aside, watching his feet as he passes to go.
T'ral wastes no time, snatching up his jacket from the chair where it hung, and stalking past her, to where Darageth, still in his harness, is heaving himself to his feet. A few moments later, they depart, and the night swallows them up.
The wings are assembling around their tables down in the living cavern, talking up a storm of sound as they exchange stories, laughter, rumours. T'ral's bulk is conspicuously missing from his wing's table, leaving considerably more room down one side of it. His whereabouts are no mystery -- Darageth still wears his harness, and lounges on his ledge, watching night fall. His rider is within, seated at the table with a bottle and a glass.
Ginella showed up for dinner as usual, and was surprised to find T'ral not present. She ate with some fellow students, isntead, finishing quickly and heading up to the weyr. Aneleth lands to let her off, then resituates so as to not disturb the brown. "Tiv?" the goldrider calls as she enters, "I was looking for you at dinner..." She spots him with a bottle, and frowns, "Where were you?"
He waits until she spots her, and then he leans forward to wrap a hand around the bottle -- it's one of D'ven's -- and pour himself a glass. "I wasn't feeling sociable," he replies shortly, glancing up to her only briefly, then back down to where he's pouring his generous drink.
Ginella frowns again, and slips off her sandals by the door, heading across the room to pull out the chair across from him and sit down. "What's the matter?" she asks, eyeing that glass as he fills it.
"This is one of those conversations which I know can't go well for me, no matter which way I attack it," T'ral replies. "I don't tell you, I'm going to get those eyes of yours. I do tell you, I'm going to get another fucking lecture out of you about it, and I am really not in the mood." He lifts his glass, and studies it. "You don't have homework to do?"
Ginella starts, and blinks, and reddens a little, under the hint of sunburn already coloring her cheeks. She was about to sit down, but doesn't quite, now, leaning on the table, instead. She doesn't really bother to hide her expression from him, surprised and hurt, and straightens again, eyes down, "I do have a little, I wasn't..." She fumbles a little; it's been a while since they did this, "It's so nice out tonight. I was going to let it wait, see if you wanted to
go out. Guess not."
"Really, not," T'ral confirms. "Weyrleader had me down there again, for whatever it is he wants when he does that." The drink disappears in the wake of those words, downed in one long swallow. He sets the glass down slowly, and looks past her, towards the entrance of the weyr.
"And... it went poorly?" Ginny prompts, smoothing her skirt with a hand as she watches T'ral drain the liquor from his glass.
"It went extremely bloody poorly," T'ral replies souly. "I think," he adds, relinquishing his glass entirely, and leaning back in his chair. "Damned if I know. How long do you have left at Caucus? A turn?"
Ginny blinks again, surprised by the question, and nods, "A turn, right-- What happened with R'vain?" she asks, brows drawn somewhat together, "How could it go that poorly, but you're not sure? Did he say something?"
"Of course he said something," T'ral snaps, his eyes leaving the weyr entrance and abruptly moving back to her. "He doesn't just haul me down there to look at my pretty face. He wanted to know what you think of what's happening, what D'ven thinks, what all the people he doesn't want to ask think. What M'arik things of it, what you think of M'arik, what everybody thinks of everybody else, as far as I know."
Ginny's frown grows a little harder, a little more set, as T'ral snaps, and lips press together, resisting the urge to retort. She listens, instead, and looks ready to roll her eyes, instead exhaling through her nose and turning her gaze back to the brownrider, "And what did you say?"
"I said that we all thought what everybody else thinks, and that I didn't know what M'arik thinks, and that I wouldn't be reporting on the whole lot to M'arik, because I answer to my own Weyrleader," T'ral replies, reaching abruptly for the bottle again. "I repeated it, I was trying to say -- and he said yes, that I had said that." The brownrider's face is good natured, so suited to laughing, but just now he wears his frown easily, and consistently. "He didn't take it, Ginny. So that's that. More'n three turns here, and I've got my answer. Get your turn finished, go back to Benden. Which I will, he'll have me to make you happy."
Ginella frowns, shaking her head a little. "So, he acknowledged that he had heard you, and that he already knew that you didn't answer to M'arik," she pauses a second, to let that sink in before asking, "How is that bad?" She's leaning against the back of the chair, now, still watching him, not entirely impressed, it seems, with this whole show of sullenness. "Besides, you agreed you'd come back to Benden anyways."
"No," T'ral disagrees, throwing up a hand to contradict her. "I tried to offer him my word, while I'm here. Yes, he already had it, but that's not the point. He wouldn't take it. He didn't say, 'Yes, you are my man'. He said 'Yes, so you said'. It's a deflection. Come on, you know this." His Bitran accent comes out now, clipped, as it always is when he's agitated, and he refills his glass with a splash. "I know I'm coming back to Benden. Now more than ever, I know that. I wanted to think I wasn't just in waiting while I was here. That I was part of Reaches."
"Do men actually say that?" Ginella asks, making a bit of a face as she repeats, "'You are my man'? Really?" She is not really taking this seriously enough, is she? She realizes and stops herself after that remark slips out, nodding along, "Yes, right, he deflected, okay. So, maybe you're not his man, his favorite, whatever. What does it matter? Just because the Weyrleader doesn't entirely trust you doesn't mean you're not part of the weyr here, that you haven't done anything or meant anything. You're part of your wing, you've done good things, and you're headed back to Benden anyways. I'd think this would just make leaving easier, and that would be a good thing."
"Of course they don't fucking well say..." T'ral's reply is prompt and snapped, the words spat out in the clipped tone that only comes with his anger. His glass is set down on the table, too heavily, and what he's poured slops over the edges. "Forget it. I told you this was a bad conversation to have. Women see this sort of thing completely differently, you just don't have the same -- I can't expect you to understand." He shoves his chair back, and comes to his feet, scowling. "I'm going out."
"Good, that'd sound stupid," Ginella replies, not quite a snap. Eyes go immediately to the spilled liquid, and lips press together before she looks up again, nostrils flaring, "What? Concept of loyalty? What were you going to say?" He stands and claims to be leaving, and she shakes her head, stepping between him and the door, "No, you said before you didn't want to go out, and I want to hear this. What about this am I incapable of understanding purely because I'm a woman, rather than because-- of anything else?"
T'ral's voice drops abruptly, so that he speaks in calm, measured tones, stepping away from his chair. "If I didn't want to go out before, I certainly don't want to stay now. Nor do I want to have this conversation with you right now. I don't need to talk about what women are or are not, and I don't need you bringing your Caucus ideas into this tonight. I'm going out."
His tone changes, and Ginny's posture shifts faintly, tightening as he speaks. Her mouth opens, then shuts with a click of teeth as cheeks redden. For a moment, she seems almost about to speak again, but she doesn't. Instead, after a beat, she steps aside, watching his feet as he passes to go.
T'ral wastes no time, snatching up his jacket from the chair where it hung, and stalking past her, to where Darageth, still in his harness, is heaving himself to his feet. A few moments later, they depart, and the night swallows them up.