(no subject)
Living Caverns
The rough-hewn majesty of this cavern far outpaces any delight in the multitudes of curves that form its enclosure. The glabrous grey granite is shot through with translucent obsidian, lending subtly-veined sparkle to the walls and the foot-trodden smoothness of the floor that shows centuries-old placements of the scarred trestle tables; carven hollows give homes for the glow baskets and the coat-pegs that line the walls. No mosaics, no painting, no tiles: just a few well-done tapestries mark the pathway that lead to the kitchen to the north and the inner caverns to the west, and frame the nighthearth's stew and snacks, while a heavier strip of oiled canvas shields the unwary from the wind... [look closer]
Scattered about in various perches and niches are forty-nine firelizards.
You see Llaammaa here.
Obvious exits:
Bowl Kitchens Inner Caverns Crafting Area Hearth
Krummolt has claimed a table for an evening of alcoholic enjoyment. He is out of uniform, so as not to mistakenly imply that he is on duty, and appears to be just settling in with a pitcher of ale, a full mug, and a big plate of little meatrolls. He looks pleased with himself as he hefts the mug, looks down over his private little feast, and quaffs deeply.
Alyx had made the mistake of being in the right place at the wrong time and so had been corralled by the cooks to help bring out fresh pot and plates of food to the tables. She's not complaining overly much, mind you, as she takes full advantage of the opportunity to squirrel away rolls and bits of meat in some of her many pockets. Last to come out is a pitcher of that very ale Krummolt is quaffing, which gets set on the table with a loud thump and an curious peek inside. She sticks a finger into it and pulls it out for a lick.
I'anex is off-duty, too. He indicates this, apparently, by having his leathers unzipped about the neck and his pants scuffed and not immediately cleaned. Yeah, so off-duty. He gives Krummolt and Alyx only a bare, half-aware nod as he passes, however, intent, typically, on klah and quick meatrolls and the fact his dragon is /asleep/ thank goodness. Going to party like it was . . . was . . . you know.
Krummolt looks around as Alyx thumps the pitcher down. "Hey, hey, careful with that! It's good stuff! Not the cheap swill." Of course, as he lets his own mug drop to the table, the ale inside sloshes a bit as well, though he does not lose any either. "Siddown, have a mug." He lifts his hand absently to I'anex.
Alyx watches I'anex approach and pass out of the corner of her eye, attention drawn back to the pitcher by Krummolt's exclamation. She pulls her finger out of her mouth with a pop and wrinkles her nose derisively. "Good stuff? As if. They used to feed the pigs with better tastin' stuff," she retorts with false bravado. But she does swing a leg over the bench and plop down, pulling a meatroll out of her back pocket before it suffers irreparable harm.
There is klah and over-cooked meatrolls in I'anex's hands. Who could ask for anything more? Well. Perhaps company. I'anex glances over his shoulder. Well. Perhaps not. He'll just trot himself to this /other/ table and hope someone worthy comes in. Well, Krum's okay, but. Too close to /that/.
Krummolt takes a hefty bite out of a meatroll and promptly speaks with his mouth full. "Yeah, you drink a lotta pig slop in your day?" he retorts. He pushes his half full mug in Alyx's drection. "Seriously. This is like ten times better than the usual stuff. They just got in some barrels from Crom." So perhaps Krummolt simply has an old hometown favorite.
Alyx sneers and shrugs her shoulders, eyeing the mug between them carefully before reaching out to pull it close and tipping it toward her to peek inside. Looks clean. Enough. The meatroll is dropped to the table top, and she lift shte mug and takes a small sip, holding back the subsequent cough and eye watering of those not overly familiar with alcohol. "Eh," she offers as a judgement.
With great dignity, I'anex raises and sips his klah. All by his dignified lonesome. Lonely at the top. All that. Not watching the other table at all.
"Eh?" Krummolt repeats incredulously. "EhhhHHhhh? Bah. Good ale's clearly wasted on you." He reaches out to try and snag the mug back out of her hand, though he does not do a particularly good job of disguising his intention.
Alyx lifts the mug up and over her head, just out of his reach. "Hey! Getcher own. You gave this one ta me!"
I'anex takes another sip of klah. Plebes!
Krummolt grabs one of the two pitchers rather than leave his seat and drinks right over the side. "Well, if you're gonna fight for it, you sharding well better drink it, girlie," he replies, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"Ain't a girlie, ya old fart," Alyx sasses back before tipping the mug bottom up and chugging the remaining ale. The slam on the table isn't entirely purposeful, but it does lend to the dramatics and disguise the brief hoarse wheezing, yes?
I'anex disguises a dishonest smirk behind the klah mug. Hypocrite, doesn't like the taste either. Amusing to watch someone /else/ choke, though.
"There ya go!" Krummolt says encouragingly, pushing the pitcher from which is not presently drinking over in Alyx's direction. As twisted as it might be, he does have his own sense of decorum. Barely. "So. Whatcha up to now, kid? You gotta fifteen, yeah? Gotcherself a good job yet?"
"Sixteen," Alyx responds. Well, she is. Almost! "Mostly just runnin' errands and stuff. Not gettin' tied down too much and such." She leans forward, hooking the pitcher's handle with her index finger and tucking a leg under her so that she's taller once she resettles (hiding a sly glance at I'anex in the process).
I'anex does not acknowledge glances from Alyx. The flare of nostrils and the slight tighten around the mug is coincedental.
"Bah." Despite apparently being in general good humor, he naturally falls into banter, "This Weyr ain't doin' you no favors treatin' you like a kid. I was in the guard at sixteen, and in the mines before that. You're not a kid any more."
"An' you sure've turned out ta be a fine, upstandin' member of the community," Alyx replies, the sarcastic note in her voice perhaps mistakeable for... flirtation? She doesn't exhibit any of the other telltale signs though, instead splashing a liberal amount of the ale into the mug of somewhat dubious ownership. Thick brows meet over her nose as she again peers dubiously into the liquid before sampling it. It's not going to bite you, Alyxianna.
"He sure has," I'anex calls, counters from across his table (closer than he'd like to admit). There is an edge of unnecessary spite.
Krummolt lifts one black eyebrow at Alyx, then turns and hefts his pitcher/mug in mock salutation to I'anex. "Hey, I work hard," he protests Alyx's sarcasm. "But I play hard too. Which I guess has gotten me into trouble a few times." To put it mildly. And now, instead of just lifting, his eyebrows give a little waggle.
"Guess there's some's got ta do it," Alyx answers I'anex pointedly, smirking in vicious satisfaction as she turns back in time to catch the brow waggle. Hmph. She rolls her eyes. Whatever. "So I suppose yer supposed ta be a role model then? You got any sage ol' words've advice? Or maybe yer more the action instead o' talkin' kind," she snarks, tipping the mug up for a series of smoother swallows. Minute later, the mug claps triumphantly down again.
"I work as hard as he does," I'anex protests without thinking. Childish. Must make up for it. I'anex straightens in his chair. "However, I think he's a little bit old for you, if you're thinking physical /already/." There! Stern, adult.
Krummolt snorts. "I ain't exactly one for talking," he replies, grinning around another pitcher-swig. Then he turns on I'anex. "Hey, if she's old enough to work and piss off to me like a grown up, she's a sharding grown up."
Alyx blinks and turns fully in her seat toward I'anex. "I /wasn't/. Guess /you/ are though. What'sa matter? Watch wher crawled up yer butt an' died?" she snarls, eyes narrowing. She grabs the pitcher and pours again, slipping her free hand under the pottery to steady the stream into her mug. "Talkin's overrated anyways," she mutters, obstinately in reply to Krummolt.
"She's just sixteen. I mean, what, a third of how old you are?" I'anex says this with great and present reasonableness, sitting yet higher on the chair. "And, nothing, Alyx. Just telling you what . . . I mean, just watch it.
"Yeah, well, just 'cause you got nothing but a nice warm dragon to sleep with, don't try to block out the rest of us," Krummolt snipes back at I'anex. He waves his pitcher a bit, then turns back in Alyx's direction. "S'how 'bout it, toots? You wanna go somewhere with less talkin'?"
To which Alyx responds with a fuzzy glare, at least directed I'anex's way. That then morphs into an entirely too-innocent smile. "Watch what?" she sing-songs sweetly, planting a hand on the table (meatroll squish! Ew!) and pushing unsteadily to her feet. Which was a mistake, since she has to sit down again to swing her legs back over the bench, unable as she is to do it from a standing position.
I'anex hops to his feet a half beat behind Alyx, starting around the table at an emphatic trot. "That's not /quite/ the same thing, Krummolt. Alyx, don't you -- don't do it. It's not all /that/ fun, and I think," at this point, he begins to cross the space between tables, "it'll be especially, uh, miserable with him, no offense, Krummolt, you know."
Krummolt comes to his feet, and his good move is abruptly gone. "Y'know what? Piss off, you self-important little ...little meddler." It takes Krummolt a minute to find something that actually finishes off his insult. Even if 'little' is no longer accurate, a standing and glowering Krummolt with his hackles raised still seems like a large block of angry muscle by comparison. "Get your nose out of business no one wants you in."
Alyx surges to her feet (finally having gotten them across the bench) and leans back to steady herself with a hand to the table. "Oh, ho. So Mister Experience wants ta give me pointers on quality versus... versus..." Okay. Drawing a blank on how to complete that sentence. Oh well. She turns around and grabs the pitcher, pouring yet another mug, though now nearly as much runs down the side of it as gets inside.
"Not likely, Krummolt," I'anex snaps, finishing his approach about near enough that Krummolt's glower is duly overshadowing him. As usual, if I'anex is intimidated by this show of strength, he either doesn't show it or is too self-ah-important to realize it's directed specifically at him. "She's too young and she's drunk out of her head. Look," I'anex gestures, "She's too drunk to finish her sentences."
Krummolt continues to glower. "Stay outta my way," he warns I'anex. He deliberately brushes by I'anex with his shoulder on his way around the table to offer Alyx a hand that would be almost gallant if the circumstances were different. "C'mon. Let's ditch the prude."
"Shuddup, Nexxy," Alyx grouses. "'m perfectly fine." She straightens and holds fairly steady on her feet, giving him a non-verbal 'See?' "Sides, 'm barely younger 'n you, you weaselly li''le hypo...crit." She reaches to lock the hand in a vise grip and screws her face up. "'kay."
I'anex bristles against the shoulder brush and, also as usual, immediately follows stubborn in Krummolt's wake. "You are /not/ going to do any such thing -- see? She's out of her mind. Her body is here, the rest of her is floating in alcohol some . . . where. You know." All this defense aside, he apparently can't resist leaning around Krummolt to inform Alyx, "/I/ wouldn't have sex with someone his age." See! So not a hypocrite.
Krummolt holds onto Alyx a little less firmly. For all that he has consumed half a pitcher of ale, he appears only mildly impared. Between his body mass and his frequent consumption of alcohol, his tolerance is considerable. He attempts to lead Alyx away, using his body to keep I'anex away from her, and once again, making an effort to put a shoulder in I'anex's chest. "Go get drunk, kid," he tells I'anex, "and grow a pair."
"So? Yer not gonna have sex with someone /my/ age either," Alyx shoots back (it made sense to her!), turning in Krummolt's grasp to lean against and around him, glaring heatedly at I'anex.
"I did!" I'anex counters. Sadly, wildly and immaturely again. Krummolt's shoulder in his chest does not help matters. I'anex rolls his eyes suspiciously down to mark it before taking a step back and attempting to circumvent the guard again. "You know X'ian will kill you if you do this, huh?"
Krummolt is a seething mess of alcohol and testosterone now, massively disinclined to take anything I'anex says seriously, particularly when it involves any male interfering with him. "X'ian can get stuffed," he replies, "and if you stand in my way again, I'm gonna leave you on the floor." And this time, as he shoulders past I'anex for the third time, he puts some muscle into the shoulder check, enough to potentially stagger I'anex, though actually knocking the rider off his feet is unlikely.
The mention of X'ian's name is enough to throw lukewarm water of sobriety in Alyx's face. In other words, cause her to blink and step back, but nothing else really. Puzzling out the meaning is just too much work, as is staying steady in the midst of all the shoving going on. She takes another step back, her hand still firmly encased by Krummolt's.
I'anex does stagger, two feet, but a temporary set-back is truly only liable to strengthen overall resolve, right? "You can--" He takes two steps forward, heavily landed, but decides against his original statement. He makes a grab at the guard's sleeve -- enough of a grab to get a handfull (instead of some timid child's tug) -- and pulls. "Look," he growls. "Get another girl. I'll help, if you want."
Krummolt lets go of Alyx's hand enough to turn on I'anex and make a two handed grab for his collar. "That's it. You and me. Outside. Now." He looks back to Alyx long enough to console her: "I'll be back in about thirty seconds." And with that, he starts to push I'anex for the door, a murderous look in his eyes.
Alyx 's head snaps toward the rider and indignant anger fires her "Hey! Don't you think /I/ getta say in this?! Go. Away. Nexxy. 'fore I make you eat dirt 'gain!" Console her? Hah! She's ready to follow them out the door.
I'anex is caught -- and for planting both palms against Krummolt's chest and shoving with all his, ah, unconsiderable might, he ends up half strangling himself. Gack. He does try to dig in his heels -- which leads to a trip and another half strangle, which leads to the best option being retaining what balance one has and walking with the push instead of against. "Wait in line, Alyx. And you are /not/ having sex until you're sharding sober." Because Eit is so still in control.
Central Bowl
Seven spindles brush the clouds overhead, displaying a jagged, spired cotillion grey-stoned majesty. The bowl from here is expansively large, extending a full half-mile in both directions, and though a bit of a stretch at times, most of the hubs of activity can be easily observed. Hard-packed ground shows the common pathways, all of them meandering about the craggy bunch of boulders that form a centerpiece within the middle of the otherwise vast emptiness.
The hatching grounds and leadership weyrs are located to the north, while the sounds of herdbeasts noisily allude to the pens slightly east of there. Constant traffic marks the entrance to the westward living caverns, and a glance... [look closer]
It is a spring midmorning.
Krummolt drags I'anex out of caverns, overbearing the lighter opponent. He is vaguely aware that Alyx is following, but right now, it seems beside the point. Once out in the bowl, he gives I'anex a hard shove away from him, attempting to put some starting distance between them. "Okay, riderboy. I'm challenging you, so you get to choose: knife or fists." He lifts his left fist, folds the right hand over it and produces a frightening series of pops from his knuckles.
Alyx /is/ trotting along behind them, though why, she could not say except that dang it, she wants to know what happens. And that it seemed better than sitting alone in the Living Cavern. A hand along the cavern wall steadies her and provides support for her lean, though she doesn't realize she's leaning.
I'anex almost falls onto his rear, there, but using mighty skills of arm flailing and planting feet apart, he manages to remain upright. Enough to /stare/ at Krummolt. "Okay, Faranth, are we taking this a little shardin-- /knives/? Are you /dueling/ . . . " He lets his breath out in a huff and rolls his shoulders back. To glare at Alyx. "You'd better thank me for this latter," he grinds out between his teeth and turns his gaze back on Krummolt. "Fists. I don't want to die, thanks." He clenches his hands in the stance he uses on the guard bags. Eh. Er.
Perhaps Feitoveth has ratted I'anex out with dry efficiency. Perhaps Wyn has an unerring knack for appearing whenever something's gone pear-shaped in her Weyr. Perhaps... she's simply passing through. In any case, out of a secondary caverns entrance pops Wyn, and over to the action she strolls. She settles into position beside the leaning Alyx, and wonders quietly "Would you care to explain things, dear?"
"Good. Then remember this," Krummolt tells I'anex. He cracks the knuckles of his other fist, then says, "GO!" Which is about as sporting as Krummolt feels inclined to be at the moment. He steps forward, feints at I'anex's face with a little twitch of one shoulder, then driving a hard punch at the rider's stomach and following it immediately, with no particular thought of defending anything I'anex might try to do to him, by a big right hook at the head.
Alyx is looking a little pale there, but she pastes on a too-indifferent expression over too-bright eyes and shrugs. "I'anex's is butting in again," she answers the weyrsecond, only slurring her words a little.
"And he's fighting Krummolt. And you, I believe," Cue a searching look at Alyx, as Wyn assesses various subtle physical tells (And some less subtle ones.) and comes up with the diagnosis of "Are under the influence. What was he interfering with?" she questions further, resting a hand lightly on Alyx's arm. It's a nice hand. Friendly. Auntly.
Feitoveth, awakened in extremity and having used his first waking moment to indeed get a sensible authority in on the matter, informs I'anex (as Krummolt makes the lunge) that they will have a talk upon his bondmate's recovery. And, indeed, I'anex does not successfully dodge the first -- it catches him hard on the right side of his abdomen. Unfortunately, in attempting to catch his breath after this -- despite an attempt to use his downward momentum to headbutt -- I'anex is also not able to dodge the second. He goes down in a heap, quite out. Bother.
Perhaps for the best for all currently involved, only one half of the amazing Morchainth and X'ian duo is on the approach - the former's dusky hide and prowling stride becoming more and more distinct with every step the lithe bronze stretches in the brawl's direction. Narrowed eyes whirling a deep forest green, interest rather than concern dictates the monster's approach. Par for the course, as half flaired wings shift and resettle back over lean flanks.
Krummolt looks down over I'anex's collapsed form, trying decide whether to feel glowingly victorious that he felled his opponent so quickly or irritable that the fight was so short. He decides on the second, even though he was aiming to knock I'anex out as quickly as possible. He turns back and spots Wyn talking to Alyx. He was just thinking about evading Weyr leadership, and here part of it is. And X'ian. He decides that now is the time to beat a hasty retreat. "Alyx," he says, sounding rather less drunk than her. "Go home with your dad. Sleep it off." Then he bobs his head once to Wyn. "Weyrsecond." And he goes to gather I'anex's form, presumably to cart him off to the infirmary. Or else to hide him in away in the lower caverns and slowly vivisect him. But probably the former.
Alyx tips a distrustful look at the hand, but doesn't shrug it off. Exactly. Just sort of /sinks/ away from it, dropping slowly down into a crouch. "He doesn't have any inf'uence with me," she replies moodily, misunderstanding the direction Wyn's diagnosis took. "He was just actin' all bristly. Tol'... Krummolt," Brief victory at remembering the name, "not ta sleep with me." Glower, glower, oh look! I'anex is down. And then... "Hey. Wait a minnit," Alyx protests to Krummolt's retreating back as she pushes back to her feet, stumbling back a few steps and steadying against the wall. "What about..." Wait. What? Dad? She's getting sent home with her dad like a little girl? The growing indignation is cut short by the even more belated realization that that implied he was around. Er...
"And you want to sleep with Guardsman Krummolt?" Wyn wonders aloud calmly, looking from Alyx to the man in question and flicking a 'we'll talk' eyebrow at him before focusing back on the drunken, sullen teenager.
I'anex does not deign to move. He is too good for moving. Hangling limply from Krummolt's arms like a sack is so totally the most superior of positions he could be holding.
Blunt snout swinging after Krummolt's intended retreat, Morchainth hesitates briefly - talons kneading down into the hard-packed earth of the bowl as he peers sharply after I'anex's limp person...and then back to Wyn. And that noisy thing that earned him a larger weyr. It's the latter that eventually appears to win over his curiousity in the end - the addition of the Weyrsecond cementing whatever silent decision has been made. Slowly, he proceeds for the pair, head held low and attentive.
"No..." Not /exactly/. Alyx is indeed a drunken, sullen (noisy thing!) teenager, but one who is more than a little uncertain as to why that particular question didn't occur to /her/ before now.
Krummolt just...retreats. And debates going into hiding.
"Is that a 'no' in the 'No, I don't want to have sex with Guardsman Krummolt' sense, or the 'I've had a bit much and I'm tired of being virginal, he'll do' sense?" Wyn wonders, terribly, awesomely matter of fact and not seeming the least put out by the conversation. "You can tell X'ian that I'll take Alyx up to my weyr if she doesn't feel like going home just yet." she informs Morchainth, resisting the urge to pat the grumbly-growly bronze proprietarily. Wyn enjoys having both her hands attached to her wrists.
A moment's pause of consideration, and Morchainth informs Vorkoroth that yes, he probably could. No confirmation one way or another in regard to whether or not he /has/ is offered. In the meanwhile, Wyn and Alyx must tolerate the slow, warm blasts of his exhalations as he draws to a halt with his snout a few feet away, and gathers long limbs and tail elegantly beneath himself to have as close to a seat as he's capable of having.
"No. No as in... no. Neither," Alyx answers blankly, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and opening them repetitively, trying to shake away the faint haze that hangs around Morchainth, who has finally caught her attention and is getting eyed warily. "I don' know. I don' know what. I don' care 'bout not... ya know." A deeply inhaled breath, and "He still shouldn't 'ave butted in." That atleast, she's convinced of. Maybe.
"So you'd rather be busy feeling like someone had used a middlesized salami to tear through a seal of now-bleeding sensitive internal flesh right now? than let I'anex 'butt in'?" Wyn wonders, neatly killing any romance that might have attached itself to the notion while no-one was looking. With a shake of her head, she points over towards where Vorkoroth is sunning himself and occasionally making mental faces at Morchainth. "Come on," she encourages. "If you'll take a brief trip up to my weyr, I have a tea that will kill any incipiant hangovers flat."
Morchainth is, in turn, ignoring Vorkoroth to the best of his ability. Somewhere or another, X'ian's startlement at the phrase that /does/ get shared makes this task far less complicated than it would have been otherwise. Outwardly, nothing more than a snort is provided in reaction - a largish dust cloud produced once he's given up on his sit and dropped down onto his belly.
"Huh?" Seriously folks, Alyx has /not/ given a lot of thought to this whole sex thing. As evidenced by her complete lack of comprehension (though that might be aided by the ale). Instead she focuses on something that she /is/ used to. Distrust. "Why?" she asks in response to the offer of a trip and tea.
"Because you look horrendous at the moment, and your father will want to know why, undoubtedly. But it's your call, dear. Morchainth can fly you up." And with that, Wyn turns and heads over to alight between Vorkoroth's neckridges and take off. To her weyr. Where she can laugh quite loudly into a pillow.
Wings folded, rigid tail slackened enough to coil around his hindquarters, Morchainth doesn't look as if he intends to fly anyone anywhere. In fact, the patch of dirt he's occupying is rather soft and warm, and this hardly seems like the sort of drama that needs to be purged immediately. Better to let it fester.
'Morchainth can fly you up.' Ha. That presumes Alyx has any kind of influence with the dragon. And that she'd want to exercise it. The bronze is given another eyeing as she edges around the end of the tunnel and slumps back down to curl with her head on her knees, out of the way of traffic, though not hidden from curious eyes.
The rough-hewn majesty of this cavern far outpaces any delight in the multitudes of curves that form its enclosure. The glabrous grey granite is shot through with translucent obsidian, lending subtly-veined sparkle to the walls and the foot-trodden smoothness of the floor that shows centuries-old placements of the scarred trestle tables; carven hollows give homes for the glow baskets and the coat-pegs that line the walls. No mosaics, no painting, no tiles: just a few well-done tapestries mark the pathway that lead to the kitchen to the north and the inner caverns to the west, and frame the nighthearth's stew and snacks, while a heavier strip of oiled canvas shields the unwary from the wind... [look closer]
Scattered about in various perches and niches are forty-nine firelizards.
You see Llaammaa here.
Obvious exits:
Bowl Kitchens Inner Caverns Crafting Area Hearth
Krummolt has claimed a table for an evening of alcoholic enjoyment. He is out of uniform, so as not to mistakenly imply that he is on duty, and appears to be just settling in with a pitcher of ale, a full mug, and a big plate of little meatrolls. He looks pleased with himself as he hefts the mug, looks down over his private little feast, and quaffs deeply.
Alyx had made the mistake of being in the right place at the wrong time and so had been corralled by the cooks to help bring out fresh pot and plates of food to the tables. She's not complaining overly much, mind you, as she takes full advantage of the opportunity to squirrel away rolls and bits of meat in some of her many pockets. Last to come out is a pitcher of that very ale Krummolt is quaffing, which gets set on the table with a loud thump and an curious peek inside. She sticks a finger into it and pulls it out for a lick.
I'anex is off-duty, too. He indicates this, apparently, by having his leathers unzipped about the neck and his pants scuffed and not immediately cleaned. Yeah, so off-duty. He gives Krummolt and Alyx only a bare, half-aware nod as he passes, however, intent, typically, on klah and quick meatrolls and the fact his dragon is /asleep/ thank goodness. Going to party like it was . . . was . . . you know.
Krummolt looks around as Alyx thumps the pitcher down. "Hey, hey, careful with that! It's good stuff! Not the cheap swill." Of course, as he lets his own mug drop to the table, the ale inside sloshes a bit as well, though he does not lose any either. "Siddown, have a mug." He lifts his hand absently to I'anex.
Alyx watches I'anex approach and pass out of the corner of her eye, attention drawn back to the pitcher by Krummolt's exclamation. She pulls her finger out of her mouth with a pop and wrinkles her nose derisively. "Good stuff? As if. They used to feed the pigs with better tastin' stuff," she retorts with false bravado. But she does swing a leg over the bench and plop down, pulling a meatroll out of her back pocket before it suffers irreparable harm.
There is klah and over-cooked meatrolls in I'anex's hands. Who could ask for anything more? Well. Perhaps company. I'anex glances over his shoulder. Well. Perhaps not. He'll just trot himself to this /other/ table and hope someone worthy comes in. Well, Krum's okay, but. Too close to /that/.
Krummolt takes a hefty bite out of a meatroll and promptly speaks with his mouth full. "Yeah, you drink a lotta pig slop in your day?" he retorts. He pushes his half full mug in Alyx's drection. "Seriously. This is like ten times better than the usual stuff. They just got in some barrels from Crom." So perhaps Krummolt simply has an old hometown favorite.
Alyx sneers and shrugs her shoulders, eyeing the mug between them carefully before reaching out to pull it close and tipping it toward her to peek inside. Looks clean. Enough. The meatroll is dropped to the table top, and she lift shte mug and takes a small sip, holding back the subsequent cough and eye watering of those not overly familiar with alcohol. "Eh," she offers as a judgement.
With great dignity, I'anex raises and sips his klah. All by his dignified lonesome. Lonely at the top. All that. Not watching the other table at all.
"Eh?" Krummolt repeats incredulously. "EhhhHHhhh? Bah. Good ale's clearly wasted on you." He reaches out to try and snag the mug back out of her hand, though he does not do a particularly good job of disguising his intention.
Alyx lifts the mug up and over her head, just out of his reach. "Hey! Getcher own. You gave this one ta me!"
I'anex takes another sip of klah. Plebes!
Krummolt grabs one of the two pitchers rather than leave his seat and drinks right over the side. "Well, if you're gonna fight for it, you sharding well better drink it, girlie," he replies, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"Ain't a girlie, ya old fart," Alyx sasses back before tipping the mug bottom up and chugging the remaining ale. The slam on the table isn't entirely purposeful, but it does lend to the dramatics and disguise the brief hoarse wheezing, yes?
I'anex disguises a dishonest smirk behind the klah mug. Hypocrite, doesn't like the taste either. Amusing to watch someone /else/ choke, though.
"There ya go!" Krummolt says encouragingly, pushing the pitcher from which is not presently drinking over in Alyx's direction. As twisted as it might be, he does have his own sense of decorum. Barely. "So. Whatcha up to now, kid? You gotta fifteen, yeah? Gotcherself a good job yet?"
"Sixteen," Alyx responds. Well, she is. Almost! "Mostly just runnin' errands and stuff. Not gettin' tied down too much and such." She leans forward, hooking the pitcher's handle with her index finger and tucking a leg under her so that she's taller once she resettles (hiding a sly glance at I'anex in the process).
I'anex does not acknowledge glances from Alyx. The flare of nostrils and the slight tighten around the mug is coincedental.
"Bah." Despite apparently being in general good humor, he naturally falls into banter, "This Weyr ain't doin' you no favors treatin' you like a kid. I was in the guard at sixteen, and in the mines before that. You're not a kid any more."
"An' you sure've turned out ta be a fine, upstandin' member of the community," Alyx replies, the sarcastic note in her voice perhaps mistakeable for... flirtation? She doesn't exhibit any of the other telltale signs though, instead splashing a liberal amount of the ale into the mug of somewhat dubious ownership. Thick brows meet over her nose as she again peers dubiously into the liquid before sampling it. It's not going to bite you, Alyxianna.
"He sure has," I'anex calls, counters from across his table (closer than he'd like to admit). There is an edge of unnecessary spite.
Krummolt lifts one black eyebrow at Alyx, then turns and hefts his pitcher/mug in mock salutation to I'anex. "Hey, I work hard," he protests Alyx's sarcasm. "But I play hard too. Which I guess has gotten me into trouble a few times." To put it mildly. And now, instead of just lifting, his eyebrows give a little waggle.
"Guess there's some's got ta do it," Alyx answers I'anex pointedly, smirking in vicious satisfaction as she turns back in time to catch the brow waggle. Hmph. She rolls her eyes. Whatever. "So I suppose yer supposed ta be a role model then? You got any sage ol' words've advice? Or maybe yer more the action instead o' talkin' kind," she snarks, tipping the mug up for a series of smoother swallows. Minute later, the mug claps triumphantly down again.
"I work as hard as he does," I'anex protests without thinking. Childish. Must make up for it. I'anex straightens in his chair. "However, I think he's a little bit old for you, if you're thinking physical /already/." There! Stern, adult.
Krummolt snorts. "I ain't exactly one for talking," he replies, grinning around another pitcher-swig. Then he turns on I'anex. "Hey, if she's old enough to work and piss off to me like a grown up, she's a sharding grown up."
Alyx blinks and turns fully in her seat toward I'anex. "I /wasn't/. Guess /you/ are though. What'sa matter? Watch wher crawled up yer butt an' died?" she snarls, eyes narrowing. She grabs the pitcher and pours again, slipping her free hand under the pottery to steady the stream into her mug. "Talkin's overrated anyways," she mutters, obstinately in reply to Krummolt.
"She's just sixteen. I mean, what, a third of how old you are?" I'anex says this with great and present reasonableness, sitting yet higher on the chair. "And, nothing, Alyx. Just telling you what . . . I mean, just watch it.
"Yeah, well, just 'cause you got nothing but a nice warm dragon to sleep with, don't try to block out the rest of us," Krummolt snipes back at I'anex. He waves his pitcher a bit, then turns back in Alyx's direction. "S'how 'bout it, toots? You wanna go somewhere with less talkin'?"
To which Alyx responds with a fuzzy glare, at least directed I'anex's way. That then morphs into an entirely too-innocent smile. "Watch what?" she sing-songs sweetly, planting a hand on the table (meatroll squish! Ew!) and pushing unsteadily to her feet. Which was a mistake, since she has to sit down again to swing her legs back over the bench, unable as she is to do it from a standing position.
I'anex hops to his feet a half beat behind Alyx, starting around the table at an emphatic trot. "That's not /quite/ the same thing, Krummolt. Alyx, don't you -- don't do it. It's not all /that/ fun, and I think," at this point, he begins to cross the space between tables, "it'll be especially, uh, miserable with him, no offense, Krummolt, you know."
Krummolt comes to his feet, and his good move is abruptly gone. "Y'know what? Piss off, you self-important little ...little meddler." It takes Krummolt a minute to find something that actually finishes off his insult. Even if 'little' is no longer accurate, a standing and glowering Krummolt with his hackles raised still seems like a large block of angry muscle by comparison. "Get your nose out of business no one wants you in."
Alyx surges to her feet (finally having gotten them across the bench) and leans back to steady herself with a hand to the table. "Oh, ho. So Mister Experience wants ta give me pointers on quality versus... versus..." Okay. Drawing a blank on how to complete that sentence. Oh well. She turns around and grabs the pitcher, pouring yet another mug, though now nearly as much runs down the side of it as gets inside.
"Not likely, Krummolt," I'anex snaps, finishing his approach about near enough that Krummolt's glower is duly overshadowing him. As usual, if I'anex is intimidated by this show of strength, he either doesn't show it or is too self-ah-important to realize it's directed specifically at him. "She's too young and she's drunk out of her head. Look," I'anex gestures, "She's too drunk to finish her sentences."
Krummolt continues to glower. "Stay outta my way," he warns I'anex. He deliberately brushes by I'anex with his shoulder on his way around the table to offer Alyx a hand that would be almost gallant if the circumstances were different. "C'mon. Let's ditch the prude."
"Shuddup, Nexxy," Alyx grouses. "'m perfectly fine." She straightens and holds fairly steady on her feet, giving him a non-verbal 'See?' "Sides, 'm barely younger 'n you, you weaselly li''le hypo...crit." She reaches to lock the hand in a vise grip and screws her face up. "'kay."
I'anex bristles against the shoulder brush and, also as usual, immediately follows stubborn in Krummolt's wake. "You are /not/ going to do any such thing -- see? She's out of her mind. Her body is here, the rest of her is floating in alcohol some . . . where. You know." All this defense aside, he apparently can't resist leaning around Krummolt to inform Alyx, "/I/ wouldn't have sex with someone his age." See! So not a hypocrite.
Krummolt holds onto Alyx a little less firmly. For all that he has consumed half a pitcher of ale, he appears only mildly impared. Between his body mass and his frequent consumption of alcohol, his tolerance is considerable. He attempts to lead Alyx away, using his body to keep I'anex away from her, and once again, making an effort to put a shoulder in I'anex's chest. "Go get drunk, kid," he tells I'anex, "and grow a pair."
"So? Yer not gonna have sex with someone /my/ age either," Alyx shoots back (it made sense to her!), turning in Krummolt's grasp to lean against and around him, glaring heatedly at I'anex.
"I did!" I'anex counters. Sadly, wildly and immaturely again. Krummolt's shoulder in his chest does not help matters. I'anex rolls his eyes suspiciously down to mark it before taking a step back and attempting to circumvent the guard again. "You know X'ian will kill you if you do this, huh?"
Krummolt is a seething mess of alcohol and testosterone now, massively disinclined to take anything I'anex says seriously, particularly when it involves any male interfering with him. "X'ian can get stuffed," he replies, "and if you stand in my way again, I'm gonna leave you on the floor." And this time, as he shoulders past I'anex for the third time, he puts some muscle into the shoulder check, enough to potentially stagger I'anex, though actually knocking the rider off his feet is unlikely.
The mention of X'ian's name is enough to throw lukewarm water of sobriety in Alyx's face. In other words, cause her to blink and step back, but nothing else really. Puzzling out the meaning is just too much work, as is staying steady in the midst of all the shoving going on. She takes another step back, her hand still firmly encased by Krummolt's.
I'anex does stagger, two feet, but a temporary set-back is truly only liable to strengthen overall resolve, right? "You can--" He takes two steps forward, heavily landed, but decides against his original statement. He makes a grab at the guard's sleeve -- enough of a grab to get a handfull (instead of some timid child's tug) -- and pulls. "Look," he growls. "Get another girl. I'll help, if you want."
Krummolt lets go of Alyx's hand enough to turn on I'anex and make a two handed grab for his collar. "That's it. You and me. Outside. Now." He looks back to Alyx long enough to console her: "I'll be back in about thirty seconds." And with that, he starts to push I'anex for the door, a murderous look in his eyes.
Alyx 's head snaps toward the rider and indignant anger fires her "Hey! Don't you think /I/ getta say in this?! Go. Away. Nexxy. 'fore I make you eat dirt 'gain!" Console her? Hah! She's ready to follow them out the door.
I'anex is caught -- and for planting both palms against Krummolt's chest and shoving with all his, ah, unconsiderable might, he ends up half strangling himself. Gack. He does try to dig in his heels -- which leads to a trip and another half strangle, which leads to the best option being retaining what balance one has and walking with the push instead of against. "Wait in line, Alyx. And you are /not/ having sex until you're sharding sober." Because Eit is so still in control.
Central Bowl
Seven spindles brush the clouds overhead, displaying a jagged, spired cotillion grey-stoned majesty. The bowl from here is expansively large, extending a full half-mile in both directions, and though a bit of a stretch at times, most of the hubs of activity can be easily observed. Hard-packed ground shows the common pathways, all of them meandering about the craggy bunch of boulders that form a centerpiece within the middle of the otherwise vast emptiness.
The hatching grounds and leadership weyrs are located to the north, while the sounds of herdbeasts noisily allude to the pens slightly east of there. Constant traffic marks the entrance to the westward living caverns, and a glance... [look closer]
It is a spring midmorning.
Krummolt drags I'anex out of caverns, overbearing the lighter opponent. He is vaguely aware that Alyx is following, but right now, it seems beside the point. Once out in the bowl, he gives I'anex a hard shove away from him, attempting to put some starting distance between them. "Okay, riderboy. I'm challenging you, so you get to choose: knife or fists." He lifts his left fist, folds the right hand over it and produces a frightening series of pops from his knuckles.
Alyx /is/ trotting along behind them, though why, she could not say except that dang it, she wants to know what happens. And that it seemed better than sitting alone in the Living Cavern. A hand along the cavern wall steadies her and provides support for her lean, though she doesn't realize she's leaning.
I'anex almost falls onto his rear, there, but using mighty skills of arm flailing and planting feet apart, he manages to remain upright. Enough to /stare/ at Krummolt. "Okay, Faranth, are we taking this a little shardin-- /knives/? Are you /dueling/ . . . " He lets his breath out in a huff and rolls his shoulders back. To glare at Alyx. "You'd better thank me for this latter," he grinds out between his teeth and turns his gaze back on Krummolt. "Fists. I don't want to die, thanks." He clenches his hands in the stance he uses on the guard bags. Eh. Er.
Perhaps Feitoveth has ratted I'anex out with dry efficiency. Perhaps Wyn has an unerring knack for appearing whenever something's gone pear-shaped in her Weyr. Perhaps... she's simply passing through. In any case, out of a secondary caverns entrance pops Wyn, and over to the action she strolls. She settles into position beside the leaning Alyx, and wonders quietly "Would you care to explain things, dear?"
"Good. Then remember this," Krummolt tells I'anex. He cracks the knuckles of his other fist, then says, "GO!" Which is about as sporting as Krummolt feels inclined to be at the moment. He steps forward, feints at I'anex's face with a little twitch of one shoulder, then driving a hard punch at the rider's stomach and following it immediately, with no particular thought of defending anything I'anex might try to do to him, by a big right hook at the head.
Alyx is looking a little pale there, but she pastes on a too-indifferent expression over too-bright eyes and shrugs. "I'anex's is butting in again," she answers the weyrsecond, only slurring her words a little.
"And he's fighting Krummolt. And you, I believe," Cue a searching look at Alyx, as Wyn assesses various subtle physical tells (And some less subtle ones.) and comes up with the diagnosis of "Are under the influence. What was he interfering with?" she questions further, resting a hand lightly on Alyx's arm. It's a nice hand. Friendly. Auntly.
Feitoveth, awakened in extremity and having used his first waking moment to indeed get a sensible authority in on the matter, informs I'anex (as Krummolt makes the lunge) that they will have a talk upon his bondmate's recovery. And, indeed, I'anex does not successfully dodge the first -- it catches him hard on the right side of his abdomen. Unfortunately, in attempting to catch his breath after this -- despite an attempt to use his downward momentum to headbutt -- I'anex is also not able to dodge the second. He goes down in a heap, quite out. Bother.
Perhaps for the best for all currently involved, only one half of the amazing Morchainth and X'ian duo is on the approach - the former's dusky hide and prowling stride becoming more and more distinct with every step the lithe bronze stretches in the brawl's direction. Narrowed eyes whirling a deep forest green, interest rather than concern dictates the monster's approach. Par for the course, as half flaired wings shift and resettle back over lean flanks.
Krummolt looks down over I'anex's collapsed form, trying decide whether to feel glowingly victorious that he felled his opponent so quickly or irritable that the fight was so short. He decides on the second, even though he was aiming to knock I'anex out as quickly as possible. He turns back and spots Wyn talking to Alyx. He was just thinking about evading Weyr leadership, and here part of it is. And X'ian. He decides that now is the time to beat a hasty retreat. "Alyx," he says, sounding rather less drunk than her. "Go home with your dad. Sleep it off." Then he bobs his head once to Wyn. "Weyrsecond." And he goes to gather I'anex's form, presumably to cart him off to the infirmary. Or else to hide him in away in the lower caverns and slowly vivisect him. But probably the former.
Alyx tips a distrustful look at the hand, but doesn't shrug it off. Exactly. Just sort of /sinks/ away from it, dropping slowly down into a crouch. "He doesn't have any inf'uence with me," she replies moodily, misunderstanding the direction Wyn's diagnosis took. "He was just actin' all bristly. Tol'... Krummolt," Brief victory at remembering the name, "not ta sleep with me." Glower, glower, oh look! I'anex is down. And then... "Hey. Wait a minnit," Alyx protests to Krummolt's retreating back as she pushes back to her feet, stumbling back a few steps and steadying against the wall. "What about..." Wait. What? Dad? She's getting sent home with her dad like a little girl? The growing indignation is cut short by the even more belated realization that that implied he was around. Er...
"And you want to sleep with Guardsman Krummolt?" Wyn wonders aloud calmly, looking from Alyx to the man in question and flicking a 'we'll talk' eyebrow at him before focusing back on the drunken, sullen teenager.
I'anex does not deign to move. He is too good for moving. Hangling limply from Krummolt's arms like a sack is so totally the most superior of positions he could be holding.
Blunt snout swinging after Krummolt's intended retreat, Morchainth hesitates briefly - talons kneading down into the hard-packed earth of the bowl as he peers sharply after I'anex's limp person...and then back to Wyn. And that noisy thing that earned him a larger weyr. It's the latter that eventually appears to win over his curiousity in the end - the addition of the Weyrsecond cementing whatever silent decision has been made. Slowly, he proceeds for the pair, head held low and attentive.
"No..." Not /exactly/. Alyx is indeed a drunken, sullen (noisy thing!) teenager, but one who is more than a little uncertain as to why that particular question didn't occur to /her/ before now.
Krummolt just...retreats. And debates going into hiding.
"Is that a 'no' in the 'No, I don't want to have sex with Guardsman Krummolt' sense, or the 'I've had a bit much and I'm tired of being virginal, he'll do' sense?" Wyn wonders, terribly, awesomely matter of fact and not seeming the least put out by the conversation. "You can tell X'ian that I'll take Alyx up to my weyr if she doesn't feel like going home just yet." she informs Morchainth, resisting the urge to pat the grumbly-growly bronze proprietarily. Wyn enjoys having both her hands attached to her wrists.
A moment's pause of consideration, and Morchainth informs Vorkoroth that yes, he probably could. No confirmation one way or another in regard to whether or not he /has/ is offered. In the meanwhile, Wyn and Alyx must tolerate the slow, warm blasts of his exhalations as he draws to a halt with his snout a few feet away, and gathers long limbs and tail elegantly beneath himself to have as close to a seat as he's capable of having.
"No. No as in... no. Neither," Alyx answers blankly, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and opening them repetitively, trying to shake away the faint haze that hangs around Morchainth, who has finally caught her attention and is getting eyed warily. "I don' know. I don' know what. I don' care 'bout not... ya know." A deeply inhaled breath, and "He still shouldn't 'ave butted in." That atleast, she's convinced of. Maybe.
"So you'd rather be busy feeling like someone had used a middlesized salami to tear through a seal of now-bleeding sensitive internal flesh right now? than let I'anex 'butt in'?" Wyn wonders, neatly killing any romance that might have attached itself to the notion while no-one was looking. With a shake of her head, she points over towards where Vorkoroth is sunning himself and occasionally making mental faces at Morchainth. "Come on," she encourages. "If you'll take a brief trip up to my weyr, I have a tea that will kill any incipiant hangovers flat."
Morchainth is, in turn, ignoring Vorkoroth to the best of his ability. Somewhere or another, X'ian's startlement at the phrase that /does/ get shared makes this task far less complicated than it would have been otherwise. Outwardly, nothing more than a snort is provided in reaction - a largish dust cloud produced once he's given up on his sit and dropped down onto his belly.
"Huh?" Seriously folks, Alyx has /not/ given a lot of thought to this whole sex thing. As evidenced by her complete lack of comprehension (though that might be aided by the ale). Instead she focuses on something that she /is/ used to. Distrust. "Why?" she asks in response to the offer of a trip and tea.
"Because you look horrendous at the moment, and your father will want to know why, undoubtedly. But it's your call, dear. Morchainth can fly you up." And with that, Wyn turns and heads over to alight between Vorkoroth's neckridges and take off. To her weyr. Where she can laugh quite loudly into a pillow.
Wings folded, rigid tail slackened enough to coil around his hindquarters, Morchainth doesn't look as if he intends to fly anyone anywhere. In fact, the patch of dirt he's occupying is rather soft and warm, and this hardly seems like the sort of drama that needs to be purged immediately. Better to let it fester.
'Morchainth can fly you up.' Ha. That presumes Alyx has any kind of influence with the dragon. And that she'd want to exercise it. The bronze is given another eyeing as she edges around the end of the tunnel and slumps back down to curl with her head on her knees, out of the way of traffic, though not hidden from curious eyes.