==== February 15, 2014
==== Erissa, Thierry, Veresch, Zeyta
==== There's a floury mess in the stores, and it leads to some… /interesting/ interactions.

Who Erissa, Thierry, Veresch, Zeyta
What There's a floury mess in the stores, and it leads to some… /interesting/ interactions.
When It is the afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the first month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
Where Igen Weyr Stores.

erissa17.jpg thierry%2018.jpg veresch_default.jpg


Stores
Boxes, everywhere: some are buried beneath the fugue of dust and spinner-webs, thrust unceremoniously into unseen corners, full of mysterious contents, their solid lids as yet unbroached. Still others line the dirt-smeared walls, damage evident in the caved-in sides or lids set askew. Littering the floor, debris has been left piled in disorganization, left untouched by inattentive drudges and administrative staff. Dull glows splutter feebly in their worn baskets, and the air is fusty and moist, shrouded in the humidity that is Igen. Moisture collects, languid, in the corners of the cavern, lending their own fragrance of mildew and green, growing things,while the occasional dry scratch of scales suggests inhabitants one might not want to inspect too closely.


Erissa pauses and holds up her glowbasket more. This deep in the weyr it's impossible to even tell if its day or night outside. The storage caverns are quiet and still. Kind of creepy, actually. Not that Erissa would scream and run at the sight of a tunnel snake but she'd rather not encounter one, thank you very much. The light creates deep shadows that only illuminate the closest of shelves and bins and crates and barrels. Moving forward cautiously she mumbles aloud, "Well, at least a mattress will be easy to spot."

People are terrible things, and there's a period right around the teens when it's especially bad. Though Veresch is slowly cruising out of that period, she's in a bugger of a mood right now, and thus has no problems with stepping up to Erissa at an angle out of the darkness. "Rider," she says extra-loudly, even crisply. "Can I help you?" On closer observation, she's wearing the trophies of her mother's exile of her to the Storage caves for some extra-nasty duty: dust, bits of material, and a smell that might best be described as antiquated. She smells like a /Granny/.

If Erissa wasn't so young and in extremely excellent health she'd probably have a heart attach when the strange young person leaps out of the dark unexpectedly. As it is the bluerider jerks back a full step and throws the glowbasket straight up in the air with a loud yelp that echoes off the rocky cavern walls! Of course, gravity kicks in and the basket as well as spilled glows then come raining down on both women.

Yeeeah. Veresch feels guilty roughly a second after she startles the woman. It's when the glows go up in the air that she strides into action: she might be a few inches shorter but her reflexes are absolutely wonderful. One hand on Erissa's shoulder persuades her to the side with a "Watch out!" It's really rather a powerful shot, and it sees the teenager in Erissa's place. There's a confused moment between raining stones and the shoves, and at the end of it the teenager's got the woven basket on her head like a lopsided mushroom. Karma happens, see; just like her mother believes. "…are you alright?"

Erissa pauses and holds up her glowbasket more. This deep in the weyr it's impossible to even tell if its day or night outside. The storage caverns are quiet and still. Kind of creepy, actually. Not that Erissa would scream and run at the sight of a tunnel snake but she'd rather not encounter one, thank you very much. The light creates deep shadows that only illuminate the closest of shelves and bins and crates and barrels. Moving forward cautiously she mumbles aloud, "Well, at least a mattress will be easy to spot."

People are terrible things, and there's a period right around the teens when it's especially bad. Though Veresch is slowly cruising out of that period, she's in a bugger of a mood right now, and thus has no problems with stepping up to Erissa at an angle out of the darkness. "Rider," she says extra-loudly, even crisply. "Can I help you?" On closer observation, she's wearing the trophies of her mother's exile of her to the Storage caves for some extra-nasty duty: dust, bits of material, and a smell that might best be described as antiquated. She smells like a /Granny/.

If Erissa wasn't so young and in extremely excellent health she'd probably have a heart attach when the strange young person leaps out of the dark unexpectedly. As it is the bluerider jerks back a full step and throws the glowbasket straight up in the air with a loud yelp that echoes off the rocky cavern walls! Of course, gravity kicks in and the basket as well as spilled glows then come raining down on both women.

Yeeeah. Veresch feels guilty roughly a second after she startles the woman. It's when the glows go up in the air that she strides into action: she might be a few inches shorter but her reflexes are absolutely wonderful. One hand on Erissa's shoulder persuades her to the side with a "Watch out!" It's really rather a powerful shot, and it sees the teenager in Erissa's place. There's a confused moment between raining stones and the shoves, and at the end of it the teenager's got the woven basket on her head like a lopsided mushroom. Karma happens, see; just like her mother believes. "…are you alright?"

Karma, it seems, is a little more pissed at Erissa than it is at Veresch. Erissa stumbles back another step from the shoulder shove and trips with another yelp and flailing arms. When she lands on an old rocker chair it seems she was in luck…. until it goes flying backward from her momentum and tips her over the other side, crashing her into an old barrel that immediately falls over and hits a shelf. The end, right? Nope! The shelf wobbles a second or two, then vibrates a containor off the edge, which falls down and crashes into the tipped barrel, shooting white powder into the air in a great white cloud. As the cloud clears a few seconds later Erissa moans and shakes her head, looking like some kind of human-sized pastry. A smaller cloud sifts down to add to what's already layered over her entire head and clothing. "Oh, great! Just flaming great!" she grumbles, batting snowy lashes. Aaaaaaaaa-chew!!! More cloud. More drift. More cursing.

The dark and dust call to Zeyta, lurker of the caverns when not buried in the backs of archives. Abandoning her books, she busies herself with another pastime of hers: scavenging for lost goods amidst the broken bits and spinner webs. Armed with her own glow-lantern to chase away the shadows before her, she creeps into the stores with a tentative step, face taut with disapproval for the cacophony that greets her. She fixes the two women with a silent, withering glare, but drifts along, wordless. Perhaps there is room for three here; let's see how they navigate each other and berths of personal space.

Veresch did not expect quite such a crash, and gives the kind of sigh only a teenager can muster up. She's prescient, see. Her mother, the most humourless workaholic this side of the bowl, will certainly hear about this, and it'll be all her fault somehow. Not a rider, see? Striking the impromptu hat off her head with an irritated swipe of the hand, she turns to faun-step her way to Erissa's side, where she sinks down on her knees to give the woman a hopeful, entirely sweet smile. "Would you like a hand up, ma'am?" The smile wavers, vanishes at the cursing and sneezing, and she leans back to avoid splatter radius. That's what alerts her to Zeyta's presence and frown at least; her expression disappears altogether and she straigtens, wordlessly offering Erissa a hand.

Room for three? There'd better be room for four! With extra space for dodging one another, for surely the clash of personalities will lead to /something/ unsavoury, when Thierry's added to the mix. The guard recruit looks absolutely uncomfortable to be out of the bazaar, his shoulders as stiff as his near regimented stride is. That there are other people nearby only makes him more uncomfortable as he wends his way towards the sound, boots clomping heavily with each unwilling step. And when he sees /who/ is making the noise? He stops dead, on the periphery of the catastrophe, watching silently. Why is Veresch always /everywhere/?

Erissa continues to have issues for a bit as every move spills more of the fluffy white stuff. Licking her lips she is relieved to at least realize the stuff is edible and not medicinal. Flour, apparently. Shifting her head as Veresch kneels beside her shakes more off her hair and she breathes it in, instantly going into a coughing fit. Sitting up she pounds her chest with a fist - which of course creates more generous clouding - and tries to get herself under control. Blue-gray eyes start to water from the effort after a moment and finally able to drag a clear breath inward she spies a hand being held in her direction. Reaching for it she tugs, probably harder than she should, in an attempt to pull to her feet. Which… you guessed it…. creates more of a white cloud as flour sifts off her rising frame.

Zeyta's brows shove together at the detritus of wasted flour sifting through the air, scowl further framing her reproach. Nimble on her feet, rather than a thundering presence with loud, booted clomps, she side-steps around Erissa and Veresch, selective in the way she meanders through the stores. Oh, look: she is paying a return visit, reaching for an old, moth-eaten shroud thrown over a pile of objects to mark it off as her own. When Thierry adds himself to this volatile mix, she casts a look over the slope of her shoulder, and then… disregards him as she does the rest of them. So charming, so social.

The scrawny weyr messenger grunts a bit at the sudden demand made on her hand by Erissa, who has two inches and likely at least a small bit of weight on her. She's definitely not a scrappy pony, nor one of those little things Lord Holders' girls adore riding on (if they do), and it's with a struggle that she gets the rider alight. Trying to ignore Zeyta, hideously red-cheeked, she's barely stepped away from a steadied Erissa before her soft shoes lose traction on the spilled flour and she kisses the ground as well, landing promptly half on her butt, half on whatever the heap to her right is. Clothes, hopefully, and not something perishable. Thierry's not been spotted yet. If she /did/ she'd die on the spot.

All that flour in the air causes Thierry to reach for his dust-veil, tugging it up over his mouth and nose as he watches the chaos unfold before him. He's absolutely aware of Zeyta, half-monitoring her movements from the corner of his eye as he stands there, twitchy with discomfort. Is there no-one else around to help the recruit who's been unwillingly sent on a grunt's job? There's only so long he can just /stand there/ before getting bored; he clears his throat, loudly and gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits to see if anyone pays attention. Because clearly they should stop what they're doing to acknowledge him! Don't they know who he is?

Erissa's mood goes from bad to worse the second Zeyta is noticed. Great! Excellent! An audience is all she needed to top off such an embarrassing spill. At least the woman doesn't yell or rant about the mess their making. Of course, then poor Veresch goes down while trying to be helpful and the moment just becomes a comedy of errors too ridiculous not to be shared. Cue the gruff sound of a clearing throat and Erissa sighs heavily, slowly turning a look over her shoulder dreading what she'll see. Oh good - another new face. Her reputation is becoming more secure by the moment. Not! When the man just stands there like a stick-in-the-mud (what ever happened to chivalry??) she gives her head another shake before remembering what that does, coughs at the resulting white drift and waves a hand in front of her face, then offers the hand to Veresch. "My turn," she notes with ironic sarcasm.

Zeyta has gathered the corner of her blanket to unveil the contents beneath when she halts, dropping the edge of fabric to face the crowd instead. Thierry, the sole familiar face among them, earns a querying glance. She folds her arms across her chest, expectant for /someone/ to restore order and end this commotion before it becomes /her/ initiative. By default, she gives the guard a chance, confidence shaky and wavering consider the recruit. Scoffing, she offers some commentary, "I had no idea the people in the stores were a mess too." Don't mind her, really.

Veresch takes the hand held out to her, but provides most of the force herself with an upsidaisy of strong legs that gets her back standing. "Thank you, ma'am," she murmurs softly to Erissa, taking a deep breath. "I'll clean up here afterwards, ma'am. Promise." That last was directed to Zeyta, but it's the man at the edge of the commotion that gains the strangest reaction: in the half-gloom and with flour-filled eyes she can't quite see him clearly, and there's no recognition of who it might be behind that all-enveloping veil either. There's a blush at that, hopefully as hidden by the light — there are definitely some guards she doesn't want to see her looking like a flour-dusted, ungainly wherry.

"Everyone's a damned mess," Thierry comments snidely to Zeyta, looking side-on at her over the top of the fabric covering his lower face. He crosses his arms more tightly, drumming fingers by his elbow. His dark eyes run over the brownrider, to the covered goods she was casing, then back to her - and the tightness around his eyes might suggest he's smiling wryly at her. Erissa and Veresch draw his attention then, and he looks from one to the other… particularly at the latter. "This not making you want to up and leave even more, Oldtimer?" Given their past conversation he's likely directing that at Zeyta - even if he is looking at the other ladies. "Oi. Little shit." Now /that/ is undeniably for Veresch. "I wanna speak to you later. Sort her out," that would be Erissa, "get that shardin' flour off your face, and come find me." As to what he's doing in here? He turns to Zeyta again. "You got any clue where in Faranth's shiny arse's name anything's kept down here?"

"I don't know who you're talking to," Veresch says colourlessly, voice lacking any intonation whatsoever. It's likely only only Erissa that can feel the quiver in her hand; that gets removed quickly as, with a glance at the three, she attempts to move off to the side to go and get cleaning stuff.

Erissa dusts her hands together once Veresch is on her feet, stopping herself just in time from giving the girl a nod. "Don't 'ma'am' me. I'm not your mom," she grumbles snappishly. "Name's Erissa." Annoyance frames white-shrouded features, though she can't deny Zeyta's pointed observation. It helps when Veresch offers to clean up since Erissa was rather dreading that necessity. Too many witnesses to just leave it now. With Veresch having put herself in the bluerider's good graces by virtue of her offer and good manners (even if she did cause this mess in the first place), Erissa falls soundly on the young girl's side when the veiled newcomer starts barking orders. The tremor that runs through the girl's hand seals it. Planting fists on either side of slender hips Erissa rounds on the man, deep blue eyes blazing and full lips set in a scowl. It might be a fiercer visual if she weren't so comically covered in white at the same time. "And who do you think you are? No one asked your opinion. If you had any manners whatsoever you'd have offered to help a lady up instead of just standing there like a frozen piece of shit." Hey, he said it first. Erissa just serves it back. Rounding a flung hand in gesture toward Veresch the bluerider tosses out last, "Come on, you can clean this up later. Let's get /us/ cleaned up first."

"Speak for yourself, Zeyta is the portrait of perfection." Evidenced by her third-person self-references, the brownrider names herself for those gathered, seconding her assertion with a haughty flip of her hair. She taps her foot on the ground with impatience, eager to resume her usual strict observance of anti-sociality so it bleeds through her normally stoic facade. "Tsk," she murmurs at Veresch, tracing a sight line to cleaning supplies in a niche for her to retrieve. Wearing no veil except the cool composure she musters over her features, she bares a sharp, tight little smile at Thierry. "Quite the opposite. I'm more convinced Igen needs me to cure its chronic incompetence. Perhaps I'll start with the guard." Tit-for-tat, she verbally spars him, biting her tongue only when Erissa intervenes to lecture him on etiquette. Smug, she supplies the recruit an answer, "Of course I know where everything is. I've gone over the inventory on /several/ occasions with the headman."

If Thierry's worried by the way Erissa turns on him, he doesn't show it; he doesn't move at all, other than to look at her, size her up, and shrug. "I'm someone /not/ making a mess of myself and not covered in flour. /Ma'am/." Because he heard her tell Veresch not to use it! His stance shifts to become a little sturdier, and he cocks his head to look at Veresch. "You. I'm talking to /you/." If she's /still/ not sure who he is, then she'll know for sure when he tugs down his dust scarf-veil-thing to glower at her. "I want to talk to you. Later." That could be ominous, but he doesn't linger on the youngest one there - he turns to Zeyta. She, apparently, can help. "There's meant to be some… fabric-y shit or something over here for me to take back. D'you know where that is?"

"I have a name! It's Veresch." Veresch flares, and her face flames even more when Thierry reveals his own visage, and she promptly turns on her heel away from the tight grouping. "It's… okay, Erissa. I'll only get dirty again if I stop now and get clean first. Besides. I'll help you look later?" For whatever it was that the rider was looking for. With her steps she traces a neat circle around Zeyta, too stompy-stompy angry to fall down right now. She grabs the poor cleaning materials in a death-grip - all the better to swing the broom into the tunnelsnake's face - and makes for her impromptu cleaning chores.

Erissa whirls, not having expected an answer and not about to give the insufferable male the satisfaction of even seeing her acknowledge his return jab. If she weren't covered in white powder and fuming at the pig-headedness of men in general she would have given a decidedly high volume whoop of support to Zeyta's witty comeback, however. As it is she only catches Veresch's decision and offer on the fly and gives the girl a curt nod, cursing under her breath when powdery flecks fall from lashes that were already pale in hue to tickle her nose. Leaving a perfect white trail of her booted footprints the bluerider leaves the trio to their own fate and goes to find some cleaning supplies of her own.

Zeyta stays poised where she stands, a rooted fixture there to pass solemn judgment on the flights of temper around her. She herself steeps in her vitriol, a slow, incessant simmer contained to ire, not full-flung rage. While Erissa and Veresch skirt around her and the former flees, she guards her hidden cargo behind her, monitoring the exchanges that play out. "Mmm, of course I know where it is." Her gaze lands on Thierry, offering no visual cue as to where his goods are stowed. "Where are you taking it? And on whose orders?" she interrogates him, suddenly grown territorial and possessive.

"Alright, you have name," Thierry responds to the younger teen with a roll of his eyes. But he's /trying/. Can she tell? It must be the odd Weyr-air that's making him so cagily stiff and reining in that temper of his. Or maybe Zeyta scares him. She /is/ scary. He steps out of the way of V's broom handle just in case she decides to take a swing at him, and watches Erissa's departure with a huff and a puff of unspoken good riddance. And then Zeyta. Ah. The bastion of bitter beauty. "As I said," though slightly-gritted teeth, "to the guardhouse. Sergeant Crillon's orders."

Veresch casts him a quick look beneath eyelashes as she goes to work; one some Bazaar woman that would have qualified as sloe-eyed and taunting. On others … just piqued. "Fine," she states. "I'll track you down later on. the guardhouse, or somewhere around there." He can damn well wait on her pleasure this time. Now, don't taunt the nice rider. Her attention shifts to Zeyta's crisp, chilly perfection then. "Ma'am, if you could please step a little further out of the way? I'll have to shift some of these things around at first to sweep up. My mom will come by later on to check it up anyway." That is said in doleful tones - she's more afraid of her mother than K'ane and O'ell together.

Zeyta falls into her preferred tic for dealing with those inferior to her, letting her focus drop down to the fingers she presents for checking. Those trim, well-tended nails require constant upkeep as now, so interesting they seem in comparison to her teenaged company. No claws here either - what pointed blows she deals take form in the words she wields. "Very well. Be sure not to disturb my pile." Permitting, she crosses nearer Thierry, not bothering to form eye-contact with either of them. Processing the information given, "Mmm. I'm sorry, I could not quite hear you. What was it you said. 'Oh, please, Zeyta, most flawless rider of the terrible brown Kczyslawborth, direct me to Sergeant Crillon's goods. I am hopeless without your Oldtime wisdom and striking resolve.'" Dance for her, Thierry, dance! If a conspiratorial side-glance aims itself at Veresch, call it coincidence.

"Heh," Thierry says stubbornly, drawing a lazy, long glance from Zeyta's toes up to her face, "funny you didn't hear that. Can't rightly remember saying it." He sniffs rebelliously, looking back at the brownrider with an arrogance to match her coolness. "Sarge's waiting. You're holding him up, /Oldtimer/." There's a twitchy-flex of his fingers against his arm where they remain crossed, and a tic in the corner of his mouth to give away that, despite being on his /very best behaviour/, he's struggling to retain an acceptable level of decorum.

There's a suspicious lip-twitch as Veresch listens to the two of them spar as she cleans. Remarkably, she's quick and neat about it, hands moving with the ease of old practice. It can't be denied that it's the conversation that holds most of her attention though; Zeyta's quips are appreciated with a gleam of eye and once, as she crosses behind the woman she airily mimes a pirouette for Thierry's benefit, that and stick out her tongue at him. It's childish, she knows, but for once she's enjoying him being on the short spit of the conversation. Although, right there at the end, she pauses, curious. "How do you say that without swallowing your tongue, ma'am? Your brown's name, I mean." It sounds dreadful.

"Impossible, my hearing is /impeccable/," protests the brownrider, too absorbed in peering at her manicure to affect more than boredom in her bland monotone. Zeyta, so liberal with her time, seeks support against the wall, aligning ramrod straight back against stone for the structural integrity of her frame. "Kczyslawborth," she repeats, enunciating for Veresch, slow and steady with a liquid prowess for such a harsh and unwieldy name. Eyes flicking up, "Mm, I don't report to Crillon. /You're/ holding him up with you general idleness and insolence. I've no /actual/ responsibility to aid you, only a limited generosity. So flatter me. Or, eat shit." She shrugs, level gaze fierce.

A pirouetting Veresch gets a tooth-baring sneer from Thierry. What is she /doing/? Then he's back to looking at Zeyta, glaring at her with anger-narrowed eyes. "Impeccably defunct," he retorts, tilting back his head just enough to be able to look down his nose at the brownrider. "I'd rather return empty-handed than dance to your tune." There's a lot of biting back being done! And it's bubbling just near the surface his struggle to remain in control only worsens. "Dunno who the fuck you think you are, rider, but you're in my way." If he has to go root through the unfamiliar stores on his own, then he will! … once Zeyta moves. If she moves.

One doesn't need to be sensitive to emotional atmospheres to know where this one is going. Veresch barely manages to stifle a groan, but has the sense to put her cleaning supplies down softly before she strides around Zeyta towards Thierry. "Excuse me, rider, I'll just borrow him for a bit," she chirps in passing, dulcet-sweet, before sliding her hand around Thierry's arm just below his elbow. C'mere, you. "You wanted to talk, right? Let's go talk." Preferably before he mouths off so badly about Oldtimer bitches that Zeyta has her brown eat his brains. Or something. Her hand might not be small, but her grip is iron, and she has enough momentum to drag him out of the caverns at least.

If looks could kill. Zeyta basks in frigid ice queen glory with a look of such utter disdain at Thierry. A possible retort hovers, unspoken, not spilling from the tip of her tongue, for Veresch with him. Leaving the brownrider to inspect her set aside haul and cart priceless antiques to her museum of a weyr. Eventually. For now, she'll savor the silence, her ruthless eyes haunting the two youths as they depart to consort in private.

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