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It is a summer afternoon, 15:53 of day 23, month 7, turn 21 of Interval 10.
Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
The interior of the living cavern is luxurious, relatively speaking -- the walls are smoothed and there are wall sconces in addition to the myriad array of glow baskets and lamps used to keep the place well lit. It's a large space, suited to handle large numbers of people, with dozens of tables arranged strategically throughout; serving tables are also conveniently located at various intervals. Tapestries hang on the walls, many of them having been there for hundreds of turns and periodically taken down for cleaning and restoration.
Up a flight of stairs would be the kitchens, where much of the hustle and bustle can be heard, if not seen. Food is transported down via discretely located dumb waiters and dispersed by servers as necessary, but the aromas of food being prepared is as pervasive as the constant chatter of people as they drift through in search of food, drink, or company. Servers are generally available to assist and ensure that cups are filled and tables are cleaned regularly.
To the west is both the main entrance to the bowl and also the night hearth, which is kept stocked with fresh klah and pots of stew. Other hearths are scattered throughout, radiating heat and warmth as well as providing gathering spots for private discussions. To the east, a short flight of stairs leads down to the inner caverns, while a stout wooden door with a purple caduceus to the south leads to the infirmary.
Obvious exits:
Bowl Inner Caverns Kitchen
Easily a double handful of Obsidian riders clomp in from the bowl, sweaty and laughing over successful drills. With many a clap on shoulders and cheerful farewell a little more than half of them break off for the inner caverns, leaving the others - no less sweaty but not as eager to bathe - to rustle up some sort of food and drink. A brief loud exchange finds B'kaiv sent off to fetch and carry, while the others settle down to a table near one wall, calling ever more improbable requests after the greenrider. He sends back a cheerfully obscene gesture for one suggestion, and with a burst of laughter, the trio turns in on itself while Kai makes for the tables.
Oh hey. Look who it is! In an oddly fitting moment, At're is fresh from the baths, his shirt still clinging to his back. The weyrling is in line, his plate in hand, patiently enduring the smalltalk from a little old auntie who finds it appropriate to lay her fragile, only slightly shaking hand on his forearm every few moments. He tolerates this as only one Holder-born could: smiles and smalltalk. However, when she dodders off to find her klah, the look of relief on his face is fairly hilarious. It passes fairly quickly, however, as someone approaches-- "B'kaiv," he greets the other in a neutral tone and a chin-dipped nod. "Good drills?" questioned after a brief assessment.
"Hey Deliva," Kai rumbles at the auntie as she totters off, and the half-smile he'd assumed for her sake only fades after his attention turns to At're. "Weyrling," is his response, tone equally neutral. "Yeah. Pretty good. Just getting some things. You busy?" One of those dangerous questions for either candidate or Weyrling, but the expression on the greenrider's face is hard to interpret.
A brief glance over B'kaiv's shoulder, then At're sort of-- sighs. Or maybe deflates is a better word, since he doesn't /actually/ sigh. "Other than trying to eat, no sir," he states, backbone straightening as his expression turns to careful bland-ness.
The greenrider snorts and jerks his head at the table where his wingmates still wait, watching the pair of them and laughing at unheard jokes. "A'right. You wanna grab more an' come sit with us? I'd have t' make two trips, but if you got th' hands free..." A half step to one side and he casually reaches past At're, snagging up a plate. "Khazioth good? You got your own weyr now, ain't you?"
Oh, well that ain't so bad. "Yes, sir, I don't mind that," At're replies relatively mildly, grabbing another plate and maneuvering down the line. He fills his own plate, and awaits instruction for the other. Meanwhile: "Khazioth is fine, yes, sir." He'll continue with the formalities until B'kaiv tells him to stop, apparently. (Hey, he started it!) There's a brief, almost-- triumphant smile, there, for the second; "Yes, sir, we have our own weyr." And he'll leave it at that, while he wrangles over to stack no less than three dinner rolls on top of his quickly-growing plate, and that takes thought energy, apparently.
B'kaiv says, "Could end up in Obsidian easy as one of th' other wings," and that's reason enough to invite the other man over, apparently. "Get things as is easy t' split." So no soup, and no pudding either. Rolls, those are easy, and both bread and cheese make a comfortable home on his plate. "Own weyr's good. Didn't hardly," but that thought gets cut off before it can go farther, to be replaced by both, "Katina likes redfruit," and, "Chielyth's in th' sun, he wants t' visit."
"Truth," At're comments regarding wing placements, then works on fingerfoods: mini meatrolls, those little quiche things that are probably Jaeyi's work, tiny little turnovers that are almost certanly her work. And cookies. Because who doesn't like cookies? And redfruit, belatedly added to a precariously full plate. "He's sleeping, right now-- visualizations tire him out, for some reason," absently to B'kaiv: afterwards, almost chagrined, "Sir."
"I were in Flint for a while," Kai mentions off-handedly, as he steers clear of frou-frou thingamabobs for more substantial fare, but soon enough his plate is groaning as well. With a jerk of head for the table he ambles that way, adding over his shoulder, "Better keep him away from Chielyth for a bit then, until he got them clear for himself. She got... this way of looking at things. Weyrlingmaster kept us back from *between* a while, 'til she figured we wasn't gonna kill ourselves doing it."
"Oh?" At're queries regarding Flint. "I think I remember that." Vaguely. Maybe someone told him, once. Maybe it was Kai! Who knows. He follows Kai with his plate of froo-froo for the wingriders and his own plain meat-and-potatoes fair for himself, squinting over at the greenrider. "I don't think she would mess him up too bad. I think he just focuses too hard on getting everything perfect-- that's what tires him out." Go figure, Khaz, trying to get things /just right/? "Hn," his low noise, just this side of a grunt, for Kai's comment about being held back.
B'kaiv says, "Yeah. 'Til th' Weyrleader... don't matter." He shrugs it off in order to slide a look sideways. "That's th' thing. She don't see like th' others. S'like it's drawn. Pictures. You know, like you done when you was a kid? Weyrlingmaster said as she probably weren't never gonna be able t' give visualizations, 'cause most can't make no sense of what she shows."
"Hnn," At're shrugs a shoulder. "She-- scribbles?" For lack of better word, he squints over at B'kaiv: his expression is fairly surprised. "I wouldn't think a dragon would think like that," he comments, mostly to himself: then a shrug, and, "If it works for her, then who really cares?" Pause, beat, internal cursing occurs, "Sir." Tacked on way after the fact, like a verbal red-headed stepchild.
"They ain't /scribbles/," Kai protest, like the exact word is important, "but yeah. Until I seen 'em a bit, she usually got t' put names t' th' dragon-blobs." Table reached, he does quick introductions around and slides into a chair, shoving his plate into the center for general food-taking. "It's important, if she ever got t' show somebody where she is, or how t' get somewhere. Khazioth don't understand where she's showing, you an' him ain't never coming back." There are murmurs and nods of agreement from his wingmates: apparently Chielyth's quirk is well known.
"Well, then," At're points out, mildly, "All the better for Khazioth to learn her manner of visualizations, aye?" He seats himself, nodding and murmuring the appropriate amount of sirs and ma'ams. "If anyone could, he could," by way of supreme confidence in his lifemate - and who said he wasn't going to make a good bronzerider, again? - before he digs into his own plate.
One of the blueriders, observing this, drawls, "He's got the ego, that's for sure." Kai snorts and rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide either. "Better check with th' Weyrlingmasters before you go claiming what he can an' can't do. I ain't gonna be responsible for it." He does admit, "There's some as can follow her, but... shells. Ain't more'n five I can think of." Bluerider puts in firmly, "She makes Uliath's head hurt. Nothing personal, Kai, but I'd rather jump drunk."
At're offers the table a crooked smile. "Yeah, but Chielyth's about the only dragon Khazioth really takes to," he comments, tone mild. "He tolerates all of the other ones." Well, maybe not Orisoth, but that needn't be said. He waves his fork to dismiss any worry, however; "I'm not about to have him go have a long talk with her about visualizations; I was just saying." Amiable enough, with an affable twist to lips in between bites.
B'kaiv waves off any possibility of offense with a bit of cheese before biting off nearly half. "That's true," one of the other greenrider admits, with a long look at B'kaiv. "The whole wing loves her." While Kai looks strangled and chews furiously she pushes to her feet and saunters off with a laugh, leaving Mr. Strangled to swallow hard, too late for retribution. Staring daggers after her back leaves her unharmed, so Kai tries for a less awkward topic: "You get t' th' Gather?"
At're stays silent regarding the wing loving Chielyth-- no need to accentuate Kai's discomfort, right? At least until he's graduated and doesn't have to worry about getting his ass handed to him. Ahem. "The gather-- yes, I was sort of required to go," Trey comments with a wry smile... which fades after a moment, as if a thought occurs to him. He falls into unnatural silence, spearing a tuber with a bit more force than necessary, chewing with his eyes focused on the klahhearth and not on any of his tablemates. Or Kai.
"I went," Kai says, like this is some sort of triumph. "Didn't stay real long." Alas for neutral topics that turn out to be conversational quicksand! He solves this little quandry by eating the rest of his cheese, while the bluerider looks between both of them with an arched brow. "Let me guess," he drawls, "You," pointing at At're, "didn't get laid, and /you/," point to Kai, "Didn't find a brawl."
At're lifts his hand. "Got laid," he replies, like a kid reporting his summertime conquests at school, though-- it really can't be considered a /conquest/... "I'm not sure what it says about you that he thinks you'd rather find a brawl than get laid," At're comments to B'kaiv, gesturing towards the bluerider with a fried tuber. "It would never cross my mind," straight-faced as he eats aforementioned tuber.
Uliath's rider greets this news with a trio of slow, sarcastic claps. "Kai can get laid any time he'd like. All he has to do is blink at Katina and she'll jump him so fast he won't know what hit him. People who can stand up to him in a /fight/, on the other hand..." He makes a grab that's meant to miss for the tuber, smooches his lips at both of the other men and settles back in his chair with all evidence of enjoying the rush of color suffusing the greenrider's face, while Kai doesn't look at either of them and pretends instead to be fantastically interested in what he should eat next.
"Ha," is At're's smirk between the bluerider and Kai, bemused. "Well, I'd fight him, but I think T'rev would ground me for life for kicking his ass," the weyrling comments, mocking confidentiality, to Uliath's. Meanwhile, you know, he doesn't look at Kai-- maybe because he doesn't trust himself not to laugh at poor Kai.
"Got the ego," the bluerider observes again, and waggles his fingers at B'kaiv while keeping At're square in his sights. "This is the point where I -should- say something about my wingmate, but I won't. I'll let you figure it out for yourself." /Now/ he takes his leave, Kai mumbling something that might be, "Clear skies," and is definitely a heartfelt, "/Shells/," once the bluerider can pretend he didn't hear it. To At're, "Ignore him. An' you're welcome t' try. Ain't th' Weyrleader you got t' be afraid of, though."
"B'kaiv, sir, I understand that you're a-- an accomplished bruiser," At're states with diplomatic aplomb, "But please remember that it wouldn't be a pushover fight, even if you did win. I trained with the guards for almost ten turns, before being Searched." The young man falls silent after that, watching the bluerider go while finishing up the last of his plate, and then claiming one of the not-eaten little turnover thingums. Tasty, if all sugared air.
B'kaiv snorts for that not-so-diplomatic 'if'. "Sure, whatever you say. Khazioth's bronze, ain't he." Irritated - perhaps more by his wingmates than the weyrling - he pulls a roll in twain, then quarters. "You figured out what wing you're leading yet?"
"B'kaiv." At're's face shows his dismay almost comically-- it's hard to try to fit in with the guys without resorting to bluster, then to find you pissed someone off for it-- the problems guys face. Women never appreciate them. "It isn't like that," he finally states, quietly, his face shut down into a stoic, hard facade. He doesn't eat, just stares at his empty plate for a long, long moment.
Cold hazel eyes narrow across the table as one of the quarters is torn yet again. "--Yeah?" Kai challenges after a handful of seconds, "What's it like, then, if you ain't prancing about talking about how you're so perfect an' you're gonna hand me my ass on a plate 'cause you're a bronzerider."
"Did I ever say I was going to hand your ass to you because I'm a bronzerider?" At're's tone, incredulous. "Fuck no I didn't, B'kaiv, I said that because I was a guard, which-- in my opinion, which is probably worthless because I'm only a damned holder, isn't that right, /sir/?-- is a damned sight more important profession than riding in interval. But it's my duty, so I do it." His voice moves from anger to clipped sarcasm to resignation, and he stands at the end. "But if you'll excuse me, sir, I'm going to take my imperfect ass out of your obviously superior presence and tend to my lifemate, whether or not he's bronze or not." That may or may not be a vein popping out on Trey's forehead. Kai just knows what buttons to press, doesn't he?
B'kaiv pops to his feet half a heartbeat after At're, plants knuckled fists on the table and leans in, his own face flushed but calm. "Sit. Your ass. /Down/. You ain't got /nothing/ on me, sharding -Blood- or -guard- or -bronzerider- or /nothing/. You ain't better'n me, an' if you weren't no weyrling I'd shove your head so far up your ass your sharding eyes'd turn brown! Had it up t' /here/," one of his hands chops at his neck, "with you going 'round all nose in th' air!"
At're sits, woodenly. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, and then just sits there, snug as a bug on a rug-- as long as he's a ladybug. They're red, right? Cause he sure as shit is. Stubborn as the day is long, he shuts up and stays that way, his eyes focused on something that isn't B'kaiv, a place way-off yonder.
Surely this little contretemps isn't going to remain unnoticed for long, and here and there around the room, where people are looking, one or two of them make abortive moves toward the pair. Abortive only, because though Kai slaps a hand onto the table, he makes no other motion to go vaulting over it once At're's sitting again. "Least you can listen, which is more'n most of you can say. So just... shells. Go back t' th' Weyrlingmaster an' tell her you got yelled at, an' maybe they'll shove me back t' th' barracks again." Another slap and he shoves back, jaw set and nostrils wide, arms folded and shoulders hunched.
"Yes, sir." At're's tone is perfectly emotionless, as he stands. "Then I have your countenance to abscond?" His grey eyes move towards B'kaiv in apparently polite question, aside from the dark-dark-dark threat that lies just below the surface. His own hands brace against the edge of the table, and he seems quite ready to leave, given the word 'go'.
B'kaiv's "/What/?" is just this side of a roar; he jabs a finger at At're's chair and barks, "Siddown." Poor At're, bouncing up and down like Bonnie and her ocean. "What'd you just got from me?"
At're sits down. The flash of hot, smug victory is just that-- a flash-- but it's obvious for those looking. His face continues to be an expressionless mask, otherwords. "Sir?" he questions. "I was merely requesting that you acqiuest to my entreaty of my own tergiversation," proving that college English was good for at least one word, Yay! <-- At're's player channeling Chielyth. "For your consent for my egress." He could go on like this all day! His eyes are bright as he continues, "Your compliance for my decam..." Because obviously Kai will have interrupted by this point, right? "..pment," just in case he doesn't.
There's a low, "Ooooh," of warning from the onlookers as At're goes on (and on) and Kai gets redder and redder. He gets as far as a strangled, "You sharding...!" before he -does- look like he's about to vault the table (probably better than just flipping the thing), and that's when a hand clamps down on Trey's shoulder. The low, "Son," yanks Kai's head up and back like he just found the end of his chain; it takes a quick ten-count before he manages a garbled, "Sir," to whoever has the weyrling in hand. Literally.
Oh, crap. At're stiffens under the hand, then sort of deflates. "Sir," he states, and this 'sir' is actually respectful, unlike his sarcastic ones to Kai: or, at least, it attempts to be. The young man clears his throat, and shifts his shoulder under his father's grip-- though it doesn't actually break it-- and shifts a resigned gaze to B'kaiv. He states it simple, this time, because-- well, because. "I have your permission to leave, sir?" Yeah. That's all he was trying to say, before. He ignores his father for the time being, other than his solid, straight posture. Tense would be an unkind word to use.
B'kaiv's eyes flick from At're to Trevor and back, ending finally on the older of the men. "Fort's duties t' Gar, sir," he says, and wipes a hand across the back of his mouth, glances away to take his dog well and truly out of this fight. There's no cook with a cleaver standing at the top of the stairs - thank Faranth - but enough people are watching the trio to keep his metaphorical hackles raised. Another, "Sir," for Trevor and the greenrider shoves away from the table like it's on fire, bulls for the closest exit he can find, leaving the quiet, "Care to explain what that was all about, son?" behind.
At least Trevor didn't wade into the fight with scarred knuckles- Vinsley's recent ruining of the family name precludes that, though it wouldn't necessarily be out of character. At're watches B'kaiv go with a dark glower, then turns to daddy dearest to give Trevor his account of what, exactly, that was all about. Needless to say... they're going to be there a while. Lucky Kai.
Sharding bronzerider thinks he's better'n me shoulda just shoved my fist into his face that woulda showed him.
Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
The interior of the living cavern is luxurious, relatively speaking -- the walls are smoothed and there are wall sconces in addition to the myriad array of glow baskets and lamps used to keep the place well lit. It's a large space, suited to handle large numbers of people, with dozens of tables arranged strategically throughout; serving tables are also conveniently located at various intervals. Tapestries hang on the walls, many of them having been there for hundreds of turns and periodically taken down for cleaning and restoration.
Up a flight of stairs would be the kitchens, where much of the hustle and bustle can be heard, if not seen. Food is transported down via discretely located dumb waiters and dispersed by servers as necessary, but the aromas of food being prepared is as pervasive as the constant chatter of people as they drift through in search of food, drink, or company. Servers are generally available to assist and ensure that cups are filled and tables are cleaned regularly.
To the west is both the main entrance to the bowl and also the night hearth, which is kept stocked with fresh klah and pots of stew. Other hearths are scattered throughout, radiating heat and warmth as well as providing gathering spots for private discussions. To the east, a short flight of stairs leads down to the inner caverns, while a stout wooden door with a purple caduceus to the south leads to the infirmary.
Obvious exits:
Bowl Inner Caverns Kitchen
Easily a double handful of Obsidian riders clomp in from the bowl, sweaty and laughing over successful drills. With many a clap on shoulders and cheerful farewell a little more than half of them break off for the inner caverns, leaving the others - no less sweaty but not as eager to bathe - to rustle up some sort of food and drink. A brief loud exchange finds B'kaiv sent off to fetch and carry, while the others settle down to a table near one wall, calling ever more improbable requests after the greenrider. He sends back a cheerfully obscene gesture for one suggestion, and with a burst of laughter, the trio turns in on itself while Kai makes for the tables.
Oh hey. Look who it is! In an oddly fitting moment, At're is fresh from the baths, his shirt still clinging to his back. The weyrling is in line, his plate in hand, patiently enduring the smalltalk from a little old auntie who finds it appropriate to lay her fragile, only slightly shaking hand on his forearm every few moments. He tolerates this as only one Holder-born could: smiles and smalltalk. However, when she dodders off to find her klah, the look of relief on his face is fairly hilarious. It passes fairly quickly, however, as someone approaches-- "B'kaiv," he greets the other in a neutral tone and a chin-dipped nod. "Good drills?" questioned after a brief assessment.
"Hey Deliva," Kai rumbles at the auntie as she totters off, and the half-smile he'd assumed for her sake only fades after his attention turns to At're. "Weyrling," is his response, tone equally neutral. "Yeah. Pretty good. Just getting some things. You busy?" One of those dangerous questions for either candidate or Weyrling, but the expression on the greenrider's face is hard to interpret.
A brief glance over B'kaiv's shoulder, then At're sort of-- sighs. Or maybe deflates is a better word, since he doesn't /actually/ sigh. "Other than trying to eat, no sir," he states, backbone straightening as his expression turns to careful bland-ness.
The greenrider snorts and jerks his head at the table where his wingmates still wait, watching the pair of them and laughing at unheard jokes. "A'right. You wanna grab more an' come sit with us? I'd have t' make two trips, but if you got th' hands free..." A half step to one side and he casually reaches past At're, snagging up a plate. "Khazioth good? You got your own weyr now, ain't you?"
Oh, well that ain't so bad. "Yes, sir, I don't mind that," At're replies relatively mildly, grabbing another plate and maneuvering down the line. He fills his own plate, and awaits instruction for the other. Meanwhile: "Khazioth is fine, yes, sir." He'll continue with the formalities until B'kaiv tells him to stop, apparently. (Hey, he started it!) There's a brief, almost-- triumphant smile, there, for the second; "Yes, sir, we have our own weyr." And he'll leave it at that, while he wrangles over to stack no less than three dinner rolls on top of his quickly-growing plate, and that takes thought energy, apparently.
B'kaiv says, "Could end up in Obsidian easy as one of th' other wings," and that's reason enough to invite the other man over, apparently. "Get things as is easy t' split." So no soup, and no pudding either. Rolls, those are easy, and both bread and cheese make a comfortable home on his plate. "Own weyr's good. Didn't hardly," but that thought gets cut off before it can go farther, to be replaced by both, "Katina likes redfruit," and, "Chielyth's in th' sun, he wants t' visit."
"Truth," At're comments regarding wing placements, then works on fingerfoods: mini meatrolls, those little quiche things that are probably Jaeyi's work, tiny little turnovers that are almost certanly her work. And cookies. Because who doesn't like cookies? And redfruit, belatedly added to a precariously full plate. "He's sleeping, right now-- visualizations tire him out, for some reason," absently to B'kaiv: afterwards, almost chagrined, "Sir."
"I were in Flint for a while," Kai mentions off-handedly, as he steers clear of frou-frou thingamabobs for more substantial fare, but soon enough his plate is groaning as well. With a jerk of head for the table he ambles that way, adding over his shoulder, "Better keep him away from Chielyth for a bit then, until he got them clear for himself. She got... this way of looking at things. Weyrlingmaster kept us back from *between* a while, 'til she figured we wasn't gonna kill ourselves doing it."
"Oh?" At're queries regarding Flint. "I think I remember that." Vaguely. Maybe someone told him, once. Maybe it was Kai! Who knows. He follows Kai with his plate of froo-froo for the wingriders and his own plain meat-and-potatoes fair for himself, squinting over at the greenrider. "I don't think she would mess him up too bad. I think he just focuses too hard on getting everything perfect-- that's what tires him out." Go figure, Khaz, trying to get things /just right/? "Hn," his low noise, just this side of a grunt, for Kai's comment about being held back.
B'kaiv says, "Yeah. 'Til th' Weyrleader... don't matter." He shrugs it off in order to slide a look sideways. "That's th' thing. She don't see like th' others. S'like it's drawn. Pictures. You know, like you done when you was a kid? Weyrlingmaster said as she probably weren't never gonna be able t' give visualizations, 'cause most can't make no sense of what she shows."
"Hnn," At're shrugs a shoulder. "She-- scribbles?" For lack of better word, he squints over at B'kaiv: his expression is fairly surprised. "I wouldn't think a dragon would think like that," he comments, mostly to himself: then a shrug, and, "If it works for her, then who really cares?" Pause, beat, internal cursing occurs, "Sir." Tacked on way after the fact, like a verbal red-headed stepchild.
"They ain't /scribbles/," Kai protest, like the exact word is important, "but yeah. Until I seen 'em a bit, she usually got t' put names t' th' dragon-blobs." Table reached, he does quick introductions around and slides into a chair, shoving his plate into the center for general food-taking. "It's important, if she ever got t' show somebody where she is, or how t' get somewhere. Khazioth don't understand where she's showing, you an' him ain't never coming back." There are murmurs and nods of agreement from his wingmates: apparently Chielyth's quirk is well known.
"Well, then," At're points out, mildly, "All the better for Khazioth to learn her manner of visualizations, aye?" He seats himself, nodding and murmuring the appropriate amount of sirs and ma'ams. "If anyone could, he could," by way of supreme confidence in his lifemate - and who said he wasn't going to make a good bronzerider, again? - before he digs into his own plate.
One of the blueriders, observing this, drawls, "He's got the ego, that's for sure." Kai snorts and rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide either. "Better check with th' Weyrlingmasters before you go claiming what he can an' can't do. I ain't gonna be responsible for it." He does admit, "There's some as can follow her, but... shells. Ain't more'n five I can think of." Bluerider puts in firmly, "She makes Uliath's head hurt. Nothing personal, Kai, but I'd rather jump drunk."
At're offers the table a crooked smile. "Yeah, but Chielyth's about the only dragon Khazioth really takes to," he comments, tone mild. "He tolerates all of the other ones." Well, maybe not Orisoth, but that needn't be said. He waves his fork to dismiss any worry, however; "I'm not about to have him go have a long talk with her about visualizations; I was just saying." Amiable enough, with an affable twist to lips in between bites.
B'kaiv waves off any possibility of offense with a bit of cheese before biting off nearly half. "That's true," one of the other greenrider admits, with a long look at B'kaiv. "The whole wing loves her." While Kai looks strangled and chews furiously she pushes to her feet and saunters off with a laugh, leaving Mr. Strangled to swallow hard, too late for retribution. Staring daggers after her back leaves her unharmed, so Kai tries for a less awkward topic: "You get t' th' Gather?"
At're stays silent regarding the wing loving Chielyth-- no need to accentuate Kai's discomfort, right? At least until he's graduated and doesn't have to worry about getting his ass handed to him. Ahem. "The gather-- yes, I was sort of required to go," Trey comments with a wry smile... which fades after a moment, as if a thought occurs to him. He falls into unnatural silence, spearing a tuber with a bit more force than necessary, chewing with his eyes focused on the klahhearth and not on any of his tablemates. Or Kai.
"I went," Kai says, like this is some sort of triumph. "Didn't stay real long." Alas for neutral topics that turn out to be conversational quicksand! He solves this little quandry by eating the rest of his cheese, while the bluerider looks between both of them with an arched brow. "Let me guess," he drawls, "You," pointing at At're, "didn't get laid, and /you/," point to Kai, "Didn't find a brawl."
At're lifts his hand. "Got laid," he replies, like a kid reporting his summertime conquests at school, though-- it really can't be considered a /conquest/... "I'm not sure what it says about you that he thinks you'd rather find a brawl than get laid," At're comments to B'kaiv, gesturing towards the bluerider with a fried tuber. "It would never cross my mind," straight-faced as he eats aforementioned tuber.
Uliath's rider greets this news with a trio of slow, sarcastic claps. "Kai can get laid any time he'd like. All he has to do is blink at Katina and she'll jump him so fast he won't know what hit him. People who can stand up to him in a /fight/, on the other hand..." He makes a grab that's meant to miss for the tuber, smooches his lips at both of the other men and settles back in his chair with all evidence of enjoying the rush of color suffusing the greenrider's face, while Kai doesn't look at either of them and pretends instead to be fantastically interested in what he should eat next.
"Ha," is At're's smirk between the bluerider and Kai, bemused. "Well, I'd fight him, but I think T'rev would ground me for life for kicking his ass," the weyrling comments, mocking confidentiality, to Uliath's. Meanwhile, you know, he doesn't look at Kai-- maybe because he doesn't trust himself not to laugh at poor Kai.
"Got the ego," the bluerider observes again, and waggles his fingers at B'kaiv while keeping At're square in his sights. "This is the point where I -should- say something about my wingmate, but I won't. I'll let you figure it out for yourself." /Now/ he takes his leave, Kai mumbling something that might be, "Clear skies," and is definitely a heartfelt, "/Shells/," once the bluerider can pretend he didn't hear it. To At're, "Ignore him. An' you're welcome t' try. Ain't th' Weyrleader you got t' be afraid of, though."
"B'kaiv, sir, I understand that you're a-- an accomplished bruiser," At're states with diplomatic aplomb, "But please remember that it wouldn't be a pushover fight, even if you did win. I trained with the guards for almost ten turns, before being Searched." The young man falls silent after that, watching the bluerider go while finishing up the last of his plate, and then claiming one of the not-eaten little turnover thingums. Tasty, if all sugared air.
B'kaiv snorts for that not-so-diplomatic 'if'. "Sure, whatever you say. Khazioth's bronze, ain't he." Irritated - perhaps more by his wingmates than the weyrling - he pulls a roll in twain, then quarters. "You figured out what wing you're leading yet?"
"B'kaiv." At're's face shows his dismay almost comically-- it's hard to try to fit in with the guys without resorting to bluster, then to find you pissed someone off for it-- the problems guys face. Women never appreciate them. "It isn't like that," he finally states, quietly, his face shut down into a stoic, hard facade. He doesn't eat, just stares at his empty plate for a long, long moment.
Cold hazel eyes narrow across the table as one of the quarters is torn yet again. "--Yeah?" Kai challenges after a handful of seconds, "What's it like, then, if you ain't prancing about talking about how you're so perfect an' you're gonna hand me my ass on a plate 'cause you're a bronzerider."
"Did I ever say I was going to hand your ass to you because I'm a bronzerider?" At're's tone, incredulous. "Fuck no I didn't, B'kaiv, I said that because I was a guard, which-- in my opinion, which is probably worthless because I'm only a damned holder, isn't that right, /sir/?-- is a damned sight more important profession than riding in interval. But it's my duty, so I do it." His voice moves from anger to clipped sarcasm to resignation, and he stands at the end. "But if you'll excuse me, sir, I'm going to take my imperfect ass out of your obviously superior presence and tend to my lifemate, whether or not he's bronze or not." That may or may not be a vein popping out on Trey's forehead. Kai just knows what buttons to press, doesn't he?
B'kaiv pops to his feet half a heartbeat after At're, plants knuckled fists on the table and leans in, his own face flushed but calm. "Sit. Your ass. /Down/. You ain't got /nothing/ on me, sharding -Blood- or -guard- or -bronzerider- or /nothing/. You ain't better'n me, an' if you weren't no weyrling I'd shove your head so far up your ass your sharding eyes'd turn brown! Had it up t' /here/," one of his hands chops at his neck, "with you going 'round all nose in th' air!"
At're sits, woodenly. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, and then just sits there, snug as a bug on a rug-- as long as he's a ladybug. They're red, right? Cause he sure as shit is. Stubborn as the day is long, he shuts up and stays that way, his eyes focused on something that isn't B'kaiv, a place way-off yonder.
Surely this little contretemps isn't going to remain unnoticed for long, and here and there around the room, where people are looking, one or two of them make abortive moves toward the pair. Abortive only, because though Kai slaps a hand onto the table, he makes no other motion to go vaulting over it once At're's sitting again. "Least you can listen, which is more'n most of you can say. So just... shells. Go back t' th' Weyrlingmaster an' tell her you got yelled at, an' maybe they'll shove me back t' th' barracks again." Another slap and he shoves back, jaw set and nostrils wide, arms folded and shoulders hunched.
"Yes, sir." At're's tone is perfectly emotionless, as he stands. "Then I have your countenance to abscond?" His grey eyes move towards B'kaiv in apparently polite question, aside from the dark-dark-dark threat that lies just below the surface. His own hands brace against the edge of the table, and he seems quite ready to leave, given the word 'go'.
B'kaiv's "/What/?" is just this side of a roar; he jabs a finger at At're's chair and barks, "Siddown." Poor At're, bouncing up and down like Bonnie and her ocean. "What'd you just got from me?"
At're sits down. The flash of hot, smug victory is just that-- a flash-- but it's obvious for those looking. His face continues to be an expressionless mask, otherwords. "Sir?" he questions. "I was merely requesting that you acqiuest to my entreaty of my own tergiversation," proving that college English was good for at least one word, Yay! <-- At're's player channeling Chielyth. "For your consent for my egress." He could go on like this all day! His eyes are bright as he continues, "Your compliance for my decam..." Because obviously Kai will have interrupted by this point, right? "..pment," just in case he doesn't.
There's a low, "Ooooh," of warning from the onlookers as At're goes on (and on) and Kai gets redder and redder. He gets as far as a strangled, "You sharding...!" before he -does- look like he's about to vault the table (probably better than just flipping the thing), and that's when a hand clamps down on Trey's shoulder. The low, "Son," yanks Kai's head up and back like he just found the end of his chain; it takes a quick ten-count before he manages a garbled, "Sir," to whoever has the weyrling in hand. Literally.
Oh, crap. At're stiffens under the hand, then sort of deflates. "Sir," he states, and this 'sir' is actually respectful, unlike his sarcastic ones to Kai: or, at least, it attempts to be. The young man clears his throat, and shifts his shoulder under his father's grip-- though it doesn't actually break it-- and shifts a resigned gaze to B'kaiv. He states it simple, this time, because-- well, because. "I have your permission to leave, sir?" Yeah. That's all he was trying to say, before. He ignores his father for the time being, other than his solid, straight posture. Tense would be an unkind word to use.
B'kaiv's eyes flick from At're to Trevor and back, ending finally on the older of the men. "Fort's duties t' Gar, sir," he says, and wipes a hand across the back of his mouth, glances away to take his dog well and truly out of this fight. There's no cook with a cleaver standing at the top of the stairs - thank Faranth - but enough people are watching the trio to keep his metaphorical hackles raised. Another, "Sir," for Trevor and the greenrider shoves away from the table like it's on fire, bulls for the closest exit he can find, leaving the quiet, "Care to explain what that was all about, son?" behind.
At least Trevor didn't wade into the fight with scarred knuckles- Vinsley's recent ruining of the family name precludes that, though it wouldn't necessarily be out of character. At're watches B'kaiv go with a dark glower, then turns to daddy dearest to give Trevor his account of what, exactly, that was all about. Needless to say... they're going to be there a while. Lucky Kai.
Sharding bronzerider thinks he's better'n me shoulda just shoved my fist into his face that woulda showed him.