====July 2, 2013
====Zeyta, M'yck
====Accused of murder, Zeyta hides out. M'yck finds her.

Who M'yck,Zeyta
What Accused of murder, Zeyta hides out. M'yck finds her.
When There is 1 turn 10 months and 6 days until the 12th pass.
Where Abandoned Caverns, Igen Weyr

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Abandoned Caverns
A tragedy of 400 turns ago wasted this cavern system which was, at its demise, private living quarters. The 'door' barring the entrance is a combination of loose wood planks and lumps of rubble too bothersome to move and suitable to make entering an unattractive past time. Not that there's anything captivating of the interior remains; a legitimate cave in of the base rock obstructs most of the ground though the chamber expands past its original dimensions when the wall to an adjoining room also collapsed. Grit and fine chips of stone carpet the floor, shreds of a rug are visible from under the weight of boulders. There is one undamaged glow sconce, but the vermin calling this abandoned cavern home aren't disclosing its salvageability.


Sheltered from the wintry heat of Igen, this collapsed network of tunneled caverns harbors more than crumbling ruins and tunnel snakes. Beyond the torn rugs and faded glows, towards the far recessed wall, half-caved in on itself, a monstrous sentry lurks. Kczyslawborth, fierce with his snarling maw and bristling spines, crouches in front of a fissured cranny that eats away deeper into the stone. Beyond him, amid furniture as old, perhaps older than the devastated cave interior, sits Zeyta, ensconced in That Fucking Davenport she hauled with her, only its shape recognizable beneath the layers of linens that shield it from dust and vermin.

M'yck has found her before, hiding among her prized dusty furniture, lurking in the bowels of their once-home. So, when the brownrider goes missing, the typical hot spots of bar, weyr and archives are ignored. Braving the old wood and gritty caverns, the bluerider ventures into the Igen dark, glow lantern in hand emitting a dim path for him to follow. As the greenish tinge touches upon the familiar black talons, a glint catches the eye and ceases his steps. "Rider."

Kczylawborth releases a harsh, guttural sound from the back of his throat, snapping at the air in front of the intruder. Fanning his large, bone-white billowing 'sails, the ecru'd beast subsides, rippling muscles taut as he pours to allow M'yck a view of his reclining mistress. Zeyta squints by the light of her own glow, scanning a document in her hand, comfortable in the abandoned space she's appropriated as a temporary weyr and treasure trove. Gaze flickering up to her caller, twin topaz circles discern the bluerider. "Did someone follow you."

Jerking his head in the direction of Kczylawborth, M'yck seems as if he is attempting to intimidate the dreadful beast, animal versus animal. When the brown does back down, it was /totally/ because of him, not his rider's silent thoughts. Striding past Kczy, he speaks loudly, "The man who follows me wishes for a quick end." It seems he doesn't care. "I followed /you/." Hide and seek can be a dangerous game.

No secret there: Kczyslawborth begrudges any creature who steals away Zeyta's attentions. Given the persisting, silent agitation psychically shared over their bond, while Zeyta looks the part of glacial cool and in control, her brown grants a wider berth to the pair, circling them with his massive bulk, glaring towards the entrance. Shrugging, the girl turns her head down, tracking her place denoted by a finger on the page, finishing to the next mark of punctuation that enables her to pause longer. "I'm hardly interesting down here. Wait until some goldrider croaks, then visit me. I have my eye on a queen's weyr." Nonchalance at its finest is exhibited right there.

"You've had your eye on a queen weyr since I've met you. Doesn't change a thing." M'yck's approach has ceased, leaving a final ten meters between them. Shedding the fun and games, the bluerider adopts a more serious tone. "Why are you hiding down here? No one knew where you were." Accusing as always, no one is innocent.

"Yes, but here the squalor makes it a real possibility," Zeyta chimes, jocund despite the dreary setting and self-imposed exile. Sitting straighter, she pats a spot beside her on the davenport, inviting him. "I was seen twice yesterday. Once, as the last visitor to see the Igen Weyrlingmaster before his dragon betweened himself. Second, while I was trying to enjoy an anonymous supper when they recovered his body at the bottom of the well." Statements of facts first, she seals her lips closed, waiting for him to process.

Venturing to use their most recent argument as a means to introduce a jab, "Couldn't be you." M'yck shoots out quickly, shaking his head and walking towards the offered seat. "I already spoke to your brother, and he had no hand in it." Ohh, burn… Taking a deep breath in order to allow Zeyta to weigh the comment and react, he eventually continues. "What use would you have with a Weyrlingmaster opening? Pining for the job?"

"If I killed someone, you would not find the body." Zeyta rolls her eyes, reluctant as she acknowledges their newly brokered terms of dating. "Of course he did not. It would be political suicide to tarnish both my reputation, and the myriad Oldtime guardsmen I aim to install in this Weyr." If she had not formerly shared these ambitions with M'yck, well, now he knows: you're up for a captain's knot soon, buddy. Shaking her head, "I hate children and weyrlings. Although," she looks contemplative for a moment, then, "anyway, no. He has Nowtime connections to High Reaches. Had."

Raising his eyebrows, "Exactly my point." M'yck admits as he points towards Zeyta, demonstrating the girl's thoroughness to an imaginary crowd. When she goes on to explain why N'ayl was not involved, he simply shakes his head and opens his mouth to explain- but chooses not to. Moving on, "What do Nowtimers in the Reaches have to do with this? With him?" A look back towards the entrance results in nothing but a view of the large brown defending it.

"Still, these Nowtimers do not know that. And as a female brownrider, I am already a natural subject to suspicion." Zeyta breathes out through flared nostrils, creasing the hide in her lap to close the thin volume shut. Locating at her side, she waves his accusatory finger away from her face. "Those Nowtimers who flew to 'recruit' us had ulterior motives. One of them stole records from our Reaches from under my nose. I aim to recover them, and O'oc was a person of interest." Pause. "It may have resulted in a diplomatic encounter." Meaning: she bared her claws at him. "I can't show myself until I can ensure a clear name." Another pause. "I may have already caused one scene at an illegal gambling ring."

"You could probably stop at female. Not exactly on top of the ol' food chain here, girl." M'yck adds the last bit to remind her, just in case her memory lapsed for a few moments. "I /knew/ those fuckers were there for more than just to help us!" From zero to sixty, the bluerider's inner rage takes shape, wasting no time to flare to magnificence. Yelling without any regard for the fact that they are hiding out, "When I see that fuckin' W'rin, I'm gonna wring hi-" That sounds too similar, and seems to infuriate him more. "Gah!" Who knew he was so passionate about hides. Or is it pride?

"No, but Kczyslawborth, for all his brownness, outsizes the majority of bronzes here," Zeyta contends, as her brutish lifemate scrapes wicked raptor talons against the ground, small sparks spraying. When M'yck reacts, her expression splits: first in a glimmer of fierce approval, then in a dark scowl that clouds her pale face as she flags a hand in front of him, urging silence. "W'rin is a tool. I think it's Br'er. Damn greenrider fooled all our goldriders, then made me look bad. I need credibility." And to not look like the prime suspect in a murder case. While she will not ask for it, her quiet glance at M'yck defers to him for … help!

"It's not the size that matters," wait for it. "It's the color," M'yck displays his wisdom on all things Nowtimer as paces back and forth, having removed himself from the davenport. "Don't tell me to be quiet!" Raw inertia, he's hard to stop once he gets going. "Br'er," the name rolls off the tongue in a most vicious growl, hatred palpable as the spit from his mouth spills to the ground in drips of venom. When he finally does take a moment to stop and look back towards Zeyta, a deep breath is taken, evidenced by the large rise and fall of his chest. "What?"

"No, it's what you do with it," Zeyta glowers at him, narrowed eyes focusing slitted pupils on him. Taken aback at his uproar, she keeps her palm upraised, signaling silence. Growl all he wants, she knows him to be all bark, no bite - at least in respect to herself. A silent observer herself, she awaits for him to blaze through the motions of his rage, waiting for a break in his vitriolic fuming. Seizing her chance when he inhales, "You're a man. As well as a guard," she states, too proud herself to directly enlist his opinion and aid.

"I'm no guard here. Only by wing. The corrupt corps doesn't deserve such a name." Apparently unhappy with the current Guard situation, M'yck makes his feelings plain. "You've as much luck swapping marks for an arrest than to convince someone to make an honest grab. Isn't that just what you do?" Rage building slowly this time, there's still opportunity to snap him out of it.

"M'yck, you might not wear the knot, but your very soul is of the substance of a guardsmen," Zeyta tells him, point-blank, her dull monotone dropping this opinion like lead: heavy, dense. "Why don't you grab for the knot," she suggests, hesitating at the signs of fomenting anger and backtracking, "Not for me but because it's - who you are. But it will help make an honest woman of me." Silver-lining illumined, she frowns, arms crossed. "I'm not buying my innocence, either. I'd rather rot in the brig. I come from a legacy of law-abiding defenders of the peace. Political graft is one thing, insulting what integrity I do have, is another. A girl has some principles."

"An honest man doesn't /grab/, for anything." M'yck pauses, closing his eyes, wrestling his rage into submission. "He does his duty, and if his work has garnered it, he is provided with position in order to foster further growth and leadership." Spoken as if read from an old hide (probably long stolen, at this point!), it resembles a chanted mantra, echoing over and over. "This damn Weyr deserves the lawlessness, anyway." He doesn't really mean that, obvious to almost /all/ amateur lie detectors.

Zeyta groans in frustration, shoving her face into the heel of her palm. Pinching the bridge of her nose, "M'yck," she yells, jumping out of her seat to gambol towards him, arms swinging at her sides. "You are the only honest man in Igen. Do not expect to be provided with anything, wrest it from the unworthy and corrupt. You cannot expect wrong to yield to right. Conquer it, instill your own law." Eye searching his face, "Unless you want me to provide it for you. I will be ugly for you, if propriety is that important."

Teeth clenched, accused of a handicap, M'yck straightens up to tower over Zeyta. "I won't have someone fight my own battle," at least he acknowledges the conflict of right versus wrong, honest versus Igen. "How long will you be down here?" Changing subjects, he is firm and determined, wasting no time on his exit from hiding.

No posturing, here: Zeyta enforces preening upon M'yck, reaching slim, quick digits to straighten his collar and adjust the buttons of his shirt. "No, that is not you, either. But I am not one to wait. Act, or I will." A threat, a promise, whatever; in their own distorted dynamic, this constitutes looking out for him and expressing an interest in his happiness. Focused on primping his appearance, her comment is off-handed, unconcerned, "Not much longer. The davenport won't fit down here, I need your weyr." Presumably, she intends to squat in the dark, inhabited interior of that semi-civilized space than the ruins they're located now.

Matching Zeyta's nonchalant attitude, M'yck provides sign off on the relocating. "Fine, just make sure Oro has room, else he'll accuse you of theft of space. Don't need more on your rap sheet, at the moment." Allowing the girl to tidy his appearance, he'll eventually break free of her hold with a simple pat on the head- because he does that. Kczy, on the other hand, earns himself a competitive glare. It's a guy thing. "Meet you in my weyr later," he's got a few things to attend to.

"Ugh, I am so grateful for my amoral lifemate," Zeyta remarks, already pouting at the restriction of the space she's allowed in his weyr. Enduring her headpat with a return push against the small of his back in the direction of the exit, "Very well. I'll fetch another bottle of ale." Kczyslawborth hisses at him, two sets of baleful brownrider-pair eyes glaring at the bluerider as he marches off to business matters. Then: time to haul her massive couch out from the cavern, unseen.

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