==== September 21, 2013
==== Kultir , Vorick (NPC)
==== A sewing Kultir finds himself being encouraged to deliver a message.

Who Kultir, Vorick (NPC)
What A sewing Kultir finds himself being encouraged to deliver a message.
When There is 1 turn 2 months and 3 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr - Archive Library

Vorick-Icon.jpg Kultir


Archive Library
There's a skybroom tree in here. It's surprising. There is also a stage, and this room has been cleaned and tidied; it's an interesting space to be sure.

Kultir has been looking for a quiet place to work for a long while. He's sitting on the edge of the stage, a pile of white fabric draped over his lap and several pins stuck through his tunic where he can reach them easily. He's gotten a lot of ribbing from the other guys in the Barracks because he actually knows how to sew … and enjoys it.

A lone figure slides along the balcony of the second floor of the library. It's more of a ledge, to be honest, but the way the figure moves with confidence across it might as well make it a stage. In one hand the dark haired man holds a glass of red wine, cupping it with well bred class and polish. Though he bears no knot, he carries himself well, clad in dark gray and black. Vorick is browsing the books housed here almost idly, as if trying to find the precise one he wishes to study. He spies one that piques his interest and goes to remove it, the volume tilting towards him and then he pauses, hearing the sounds of another. Book drops back into place with a thud and the man half turns toward the sound, spying Kultir for the first time and meriting a full turn now. He watches the man sewing for a moment and then a ghost of a smile crosses his lips before he's heading toward the ladder.

Kultir had no idea whatsoever that anyone else was in the library seeing as how it's after supper and most people are lingering over their meals or finishing up chores or … whatever riders do when their days are done. He hums idly, a rather cheerful tune from the sound of it though it is probably quite unfamiliar to anyone overhearing him. He lifts the pristine white garment, shaking it out to check how the area he's been stitching on hangs. Cocking his head slightly at the garment he frowns and gathers it back into his lap and moves on down the seam along one side. He slips another pin out of the garment, sticking it through his tunic showing where the other pins residing there have come from.

Boots fall softly, the older man prowling with the grace of a feline as he makes his way down to the ladder. Vorick climbs down, one hand still holding the wine glass as he does so. Once solidly on the ground, he strides over toward the Candidate, purpose in his steps as they fall nigh silently on the stone. It's almost as if he were a ghost himself. He comes to a stop before Kultir, the placement of the glows causing him to cast long shadows over the sandy-haired man. There is a long silent and a slow sip of wine to go with it, savored, swirled and then swallowed. "If only more candidates took refuse in places of learning." His voice has a sharp clarity to it, devoid of any particular accent. It rolls out of him in a tingling baritone. "Perhaps then riders would not be so empty headed and useless."

Kultir's head had risen before the man had set foot on the first rung of the ladder, frowning as he glances toward the door. He's felt as if something was … stalking him, the same feeling he used to have when he was tracking through the jungles. He shakes his head, still frowning and no longer humming to himself, and returns to his sewing until a pair of booted feet comes within the circle of his vision. He looks up, still frowning slightly, and raises an eyebrow slightly at the man's comment. "I be comin' here f'r the quiet … more'n th' books." he says, turning his gaze back to his task. His mind is a turmoil at the disrespectful comment from the man and isn't sure how to answer it. He ties off the current stitch and sticks the needle next to the pins as he sets the garment aside. "I dunno that th' riders all be empty headed an' … next turn they'll be mighty useful when Thread comes again." His thick Keroonian boony-boy accent is quite evident against the older man's polished diction.

"Pity." More wine is elegantly sipped, though Vorick somehow manages to continue staring down the bridge of his nose at Kultir while he does so. His gray-green eyes are hawkish in their intense scrutiny even as the glass moves away from his lips and he slowly swallows down the fine red. "I never understood why the Harpers at Keroon do not try to break the region's terrible tendency toward unintelligible tongues." It's a subtle jab at the Candidate's rustic accent. There is a soft snort as the boy mentions the upcoming Pass. "You can still be an ignorant fool and fly to meet Thread." His wineglass is contemplated with a gentle swirl. "Truly we place our faith and trust on the backs of instinct and emptiness." He moves away from the would-be seamstress, his back to the other now, momentarily silent in contemplation, or perhaps awaiting rebuttal, like a feline playing with its food.

Kultir can speak as smoothly as the older man should he choose to … he simply doesn't choose to at the moment. He shrugs slightly and turns slightly to snag the pitcher of klah he'd brought with him from the drinks table in the caverns and pours a bit more in the mug he'd been nursing for a little while. He downs nearly the whole mug since he's not really allowed to have liquids around the manuscripts here. "Sometimes it be good t' be empty headed … when ye gotta act instead o' ditherin' over how ye oughta react." he says, lifting one knee to cross it over the other and lacing his fingers around it.

Back still turned to Kultir, it's a moment or two more before the Harper replies with his liquid intonations. "There are ways to free the mind of distraction without leaving it vapid." Another sip and Vorick turns about in a sharp movement of heels and hips. "Impulsive actions are the hallmark of inexperience." Eyes narrow slightly, studying the Candidate's posture. "I suppose some minds are simply too small to grow beyond that, however." Another small sip. "More's the pity, truly. But I suppose such insipid people do have their uses." A chair is spied and in several quick, long strides it is occupied languidly by the journeyman who simply waits to see how the boy will react, the arm free of wineglass laid across the back of the chair to serve as a prop whilst he evaluates the younger man.

Kultir is having a bit of difficulty remaining polite to this obnoxious man but has no choice in the matter if he doesn't want to face a reprimand at the best. He sighs and shrugs one shoulder. "Iff'n ye think I be stupid … jes come out 'n say so." he says equably. "Ye ain't th' firs' … ye won' be th' last." He knows he's smarter than all of his family but he also knows he's not as smart as most of the people in the Weyr too. Another mug of klah is poured and this time he just sips the warm liquid and returns the older man's gaze steadily.

"Did I say that you were?" Vorick levels a cool gaze at Kultir, wineglass moving in an absent swirl. "Oh, dear boy, you must have mistaken me for someone else. Why, I never said anything of the sort." He pauses in his golden wordplay to sip at his glass. "Why, for all I know of you you could be a savant and I would not know." He pushes himself upright, now leaning slightly forward and over, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Ignorance does not equate to idiocy." A pause to let that sink in. "Perhaps you have potential yet untapped and unharnessed for the sculpting." Another sip. "Only you can determine that course." His mixed messages are sure to confuse, though they are not lies as such so much as word games.

Kultir snorts inelegantly at the man and shrugs. "Fine … so's I be iggerant 'stead o' stupid. Be th' same thing t' snooty folks like you is, Harper." he mutters a bit sullenly. His ears are beginning to turn red as his temper rises. He's never been one for word games and … he's getting quite frustrated by this roundabout speech. "I know there be things I don' know … I know there be lots I gotta learn and I be studyin'. I don' need no Harper t' come round an' rub m' nose in't, ye ken?" Intelligent the boy may be and quick to learn his lessons but he is still quite naive about the wider world.

"Your words, not mine." Gray-green eyes regard Kultir coolly, Vorick perched with the balance of a feline as he sits on the chair. "And did I not say you might have potential?" For shame, Candidate, making such wild accusations, his eyes seem to say as they bore into the younger man. "There are things unknown by all men." He stands again in a single graceful motion, turning heel and walking a short distance away. "Even I would be a fool to say that I know all things." Another sip quenches his parched throat and he half turns to look back at the Keroonian. "Is that what you think I have been doing?" he inquires coolly, eyebrow raising. "Perhaps I have overestimated you then." Now that is an insult.

Kultir starts to his feet when the man suddenly stands and walks away, the feeling in his gut one that has saved his life many times in the past four … nearly five Turns of wandering the face of Pern. He feels threatened and his fight or flight response has kicked in. He keep a wary eye on the man while still making sure that there is an escape route should he need it. "Ye may not say ye know everythin' but I run into folks like ye afore. Ye use ye'r … big words an' …" He drops the backwater accent and mimics the man's impeccable verbiage. " … perfect diction to cause the rest of us to feel inferior to your oh-so-superior intellect." He snorts once more and shrugs, measuring the distance between him and the man should that feeling in his gut prove correct. "Overestimate … underestimate … I don' particularly care which ye do." The boy does recognize the insult but he will not be goaded simply by words.

Buttons pushed and feelings manipulated, the poor Candidate has become the latest victim to Vorick's emotional puppeting. Back still turned to Kultir, a small smirk slithers across his lips as the boy mimics him in a futile attempt to lash out. Wine is polished in one last tilt of the glass and set down on a nearby table before the Harper's frame performs a smooth 180, striding slowly over toward the youth. "Perhaps you are too afraid of your own potential to even recognize it." His words carry him closer, closer, and suddenly to Kultir, his right hand coming down to pat him on the shoulder patronizingly as he stands to the boy's right, the Journeyman's left. "It is a shame, really," he murmurs, baritone breath sliding hot against the man's ear. "Just another life left to decay in the annals of Pern."

Kultir frowns as he watches the older man, not sure what the man might do but what he does do is … unexpected. The words, even more unexpected, cause the boy to scowl and bare his teeth slightly in a bit of a snarl. "I ain't scared o' much …" he growls deep in his chest. That feeling of threat building as the man makes his way closer but when that hand touches his shoulder and the voice is right in his ear, the boy flinches violently away. Both hands swing up on the outside of the arm, knocking the man's hand off his shoulder and shoving hard as he pivots to keep the man in his sights. The boy is breathing hard as he rocks on the balls of his feet, fists clenched and held slightly out from his body. Still unsure of exactly whether there really is a threat or not.

Age has clearly not slowed Vorick in the least, for he moves with the feline grace of a man much younger, movements whisper quiet save for the slight clacking of his boots on the library's stone floor. He allows himself to be momentarily batted away, a grin flickering across his features and just as quickly quelled as he moves with Kultir like a predator tailing his prey. His own hand — the self-same one that moments ago had so gently patted the Candidate's shoulder — flicks out and the thumb presses hard against the delicate tendons in the wrist, forcing the clenched fist open. Kutilr's arm is rotated and twisted so that it is pinned on the verge of a shoulder dislocation behind the man, the Journeyman adding the proverbial salt to the wound as he also bends the youth's wrist, threatening to break it. Vorick leans in from behind now, slowly using the pressure to force the resident to his knees, thus now towering over the sandy man. "Fear exists for a reason." Tweak. "Survival." His breath is scorching against the back of Kultir's ear. "Now that I have your attention, I would like you to deliver a message for me."

Kultir's eyes widen as the man seems to barely move after that shove that would have sent his last opponent sprawling his full length on the ground. The boy doesn't even have time to dance away before the man is right there and has the teenager is quite a painful wristlock with his arm forced up between his shoulder blades. A hiss is forced from between clenched teeth, his head straining back against the pain as he is slowly pushed to one knee by the pressure on that arm. When the man's voice breathes hot against his ear, the boy growls low in his chest as adrenaline rushes through his body. Kultir understands fear meaning survival … it's what's kept him alive since the first time his brothers had tried to kill him in the herdbeast stampede. His free hand clenches into a tight fist and swing around and up, his unconscious aim being at the spot just beside his ear, hoping to loosen the man's grip so that he can get away from the man.

The futile struggle of the fly against the spider plays itself out in the interplay between Kultir and Vorick. Even as the young Candidate tries to struggle against the Harper's grip, the boy's strength is used against him, tightening the trap and causing tendons to creak unpleasantly. "It would be unwise to repeat your previous follies," he murmurs, green-gray eyes darting to catch the movement of the youth's left hand, seeking in vain to catch the elder man off guard. With cobra efficiency the other arm finds its kinetic energy turned against it, forced in beside Kultir's right arm. Both shoulders are surely now burning from the stretched tendons. "I believe you know Sytin." It is not a question. "If you could be so kind and tell him that Vorick sends his regards, I would be ever so grateful." His words slide out like gilded silk from his lips, polished, poised and poisonous. "Do you think you could do that for me, hm?" The Harper tweaks the Candidate's arms again ever so slightly, just in case anything was unclear.

A startled cry is forced from Kultir when his other arm is wrenched tight behind his back. His head drops forward onto his chest, his breath coming in shallow sobs. His stomach twists and clenches as sudden nausea hits and causes the boy to gasp and retch from the pain. He forces his eyes open and leans forward slightly over his raised knee as if he's giving up the fight. He draws as deep a breath as he can with his diaphragm restricted so much and shoves upward with his right leg and throws his head back, hoping to contact the other man's face. He struggles with every fiber of his being despite the danger of having his shoulders torn from their sockets by the hold the older man has him in. He is beyond knowing what he is doing or hearing anything except the rush of blood in his ears.

Ah, the traditional sucker punch. It's hard to have lived through so much without encountering such tactics at least a few times. Unfortunately for Kultir the muscles in his body betrayed him before he could even finish his deception, giving Vorick all the forewarning required to simply lean back, following the boy's movement with uncanny accuracy. Clearly the silvering temples have been earned through many life experiences. Something cold and calculating flickers in the Harper's eyes as his messenger continues to struggle. Oh, this won't do at all. From Vorick's perspective it is the merest tweak of his hold on the Candidate's arms, but from the youth's perspective his own strength and movement are used against him to inflict a debilitating blow. There is a sudden, sickening crack as the left shoulder dislocates, now hanging oddly from its socket. The Journeyman doesn't let go of Kultir's arms for a moment more, allowing him to hang in what is surely white agony before he releases the boy, allowing him to tumble forward to the floor should he fail to catch himself. "A shame. I was hoping we might have a more reasonable discourse."

A soft whimper escapes Kultir's lips as he realizes just how futile his attempts to defend himself from this much more experienced fighter. The first glimpse of his mistake occurs when his head fails to contact the other man's teeth and tumbles down hill from there. That crack in his left shoulder causes a total cessation of movement in the boy's entire body, everything freezes … muscles, thought, breath and briefly, his heart. Then pain … sudden, intense, excruciating, debilitating PAIN. As soon as the pain registers in his brain, the boy pitches forward twitching uncontrollably and sobbing to hang in Vorick's grasp until the man releases him. Numb right arm refuses to move to break his fall so the boy slams into the stone floor, the right temple, cheek and jaw all scraping along the slightly roughened stone as his breath woofs out of his body. The boy can't do anything but grovel on the floor and attempt to get air back into his lungs with shallow gasping sobs.

As the fight is abruptly taken out of the man, Vorick simply steps over Kultir's prone body and retrieves his wine glass from the table where he left it. He examines it briefly, as if disappointed that it is still empty, and then turns back to the Candidate, groveling on the ground. "Such a simple request, but I see now that you are not the best messenger to deliver it. I will find another." This sounds ominous, but the young man is clearly in no position to argue. "Well, I will leave you to your task." Which clearly the man will not be getting to anytime soon. The Harper turns, making his way to the door and beyond it, leaving Kultir to recover or wallow in agony as he will, library now empty save for the prostrate form gasping on its floor.

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