| Who | M'yck, Zeyta |
|---|---|
| What | Pigheaded bickering |
| When | Late summer, before the final devastating METEOR strikes |
| Where | Quiet Corners, HRW |
Quiet Corners
Thick woolen tapestries dull the noise from the rest of the caverns, turning this well-lit little room into a welcome escape. The stairs up place it against the bowl wall somewhere above the living caverns, carpeted against the winters chill or left as cool stone floor in summer. Some high and narrow windows can be opened to the world outside, or secured with their heavy metal-sided shutters and blue-threaded curtains.
Glowlight gleams, brightening the well-cushioned stone couches and lighting the weyr residents half-finished projects: knitting undone, sewing only started, leathers being worked soft, and even a hide of sketches or half-finished Thread-chart spread out across one of the tables.
With each passing day, Pern devolves further and further into a vast chaos of selfish survival. The iron frame of structure and order weakens at every joint as The Comet's destruction burned swathes of land. High Reaches Weyr, although not directly struck, is no different than the rest of the land. Fewer residents and riders emerge into the caverns and bowl every morning, either taking to the road in fear, or jumping forward to the promised bastion. Then there is M'yck: Guard Sergeant with few men left to keep the peace, and little in the form of objectives, he's quickly losing sight of the answers to the question of 'why?' So, sat in the quiet corners, alone, M'yck broods with the familiar flask of poison.
Up those stairs marches another poison; Zeyta proceeds with a booming fanfare of staccato steps, the rugs that once muted the noise of comings-and-goings stolen. Such places of refuge and luxury as the quiet corners receive minimal guarding, for indeed, the guard's number as waned, so much so that the brownrider deputized herself in marshal law, appearing in full blue-black uniform. For one amidst so much strife, she maintains order amongst herself, groomed to perfection, no more tired looking than usual, nor more hostile than is natural. Whether she clawed an official knot to tie on her shoulder or not, pure ferocity and obsessive performance of administrative duties have made her a force to be reckoned with down in the lower caverns, and across the Weyr at large; more so than before, in times of peace. And, as ever, the ruthless politician has cut undertable deals and struck bargains to secure her own safety and wellbeing — any visit to her weyr will prove it stockpiled enough to seemingly survive several comets. Perhaps there, in her ominous abode is the one sign of panic: she hoards everything nowadays, escaping the clutter to the ransacked remains of this solemn little spot of silence.
Snapping his eyes towards the entrance, M'yck's gaze falls on his approaching sister-in-arms. Relaxing at the sight of Zeyta, he collects himself and uses a single large arm to raise himself to a seated position. "I've this beat, kid." Because, you know, she's a rookie now. "Come back for extra blankets, then? Just in case?"
"You have what beat?" Zeyta still hasn't caught onto the guard lingo; maybe she's even staunchly refused to verse herself in that particular vernacular. Honing in on M'yck she stalks forth toward him, a hyena approaching a lion with its kill. Predatory, but scavenging with her hungry gaze. "Mmm, no. I have plenty. Are you sure, you should be drinking?"
A swipe of his hand across the immediate landscape presents the once cozy, now barren quiet corner. "My beat," is repeated- if she's waiting for an in-depth explanation, it won't come. As Zeyta makes good on her approach, the lion stares straight back, confident in the fact that she has no pack at her whim- not anymore, at least. "You have them all, you mean. Might as well start a train to rival that shit Akadriel and crew." The alcohol doesn't have his wits completely, but it's clear the effects are closing in. Maybe realizing it himself, M'yck lowers the flask and states with confidence, "I'm not sure of much anymore." Irony it it's most pure state. "What are we doing here?"
Long-ago inoculated to the stench of drunks and their peculiar changes in behavior, Zeyta stops short of knocking her knees against his, looming over his couched position. Hands fasten on her hips, a typical pose. "My beat is all you see," she informs him, compensating for her clumsy use of foreign vocabulary with confidence in her tone. She stares at him, down the small slope of her nose, with her tiny, demeaning gaze. "I don't have all of them. Plus, I distribute them. At night. To others. And the Chadey are like — mmm. Watch your tongue." Far from consoler, she likely only adds to the aggravation of the bluerider. "Getting by. Maintaining order. Not giving up on home."
Familiar with the looming tower seemingly chopped at its knees, Zeyta's short, powerful stature is simply… acknowledged. With a raise of a single eyebrow, "Distribute. The blankets?" Looking over one shoulder, then the other, M'yck seems baffled. "Where have I /been/?" Pointing a finger back towards his verbal assailant, "I've little desire to watch my mouth, nevermind my tongue." Adopting a more serious tone, the guardrider clears his throat as he sits up even further. "Getting by, that I'll agree to. But when does it stop being our home?"
"I don't have time to dog you all day." An irate edge sharpens Zeyta's voice, offense taken at his bewildered reaction to her statement. As for his latter question, she has a plain reply: "When I die. I was born in High Reaches, lived in High Reaches, and it is in High Reaches that I shall meet my end. And you can't leave." She practically barks that last order at him.
"That day may come sooner that you're planning for." Stated as fact, M'yck breaks the chains binding him to his seat, stone groaning as his legs straighten and raise him to his full height. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the same people you grace with blankets skulk the shadows, stealing what they need to /live/. You remember the damn food shortage." Getting slightly more excited with each word, M'yck's arms are extended to each side. "That was when the food was scarce. Now, tell me when we are getting another tithe train. Period. Ever?" Attempting to beat Zeyta down with cold hard reality- will it work?
"The tithes will come," Zeyta inists, stubborn as ever. She only provides physical leeway, forced back when M'yck stands from his seat, wielding his height over her, much to her dismay. "And there are less people. We don't need as much. And - we are guarding the stores. People won't go hungry. The Weyr needs us to make sure it doesn't crumble. To ensure the rations continue and everyone who is determined survives."
Fierce tone disappating, M'yck's words seem to fill with despair. "Those who are determined will survive. That is what I'm saying." Shaking his head, "They'll survive off of the less determined. It will be ugly. There are barely a handful of the old Guard left. The rider's have mostly gone." The bluerider's hands go up for a few moments before falling back down at his sides. "And it's not yet done."
"I can handle ugly," Zeyta snarls, provoked and evidencing her own claim by displaying that very trait. She keeps her hands balled up into fists, elbows poking out, arms in wing-formation. "I won't leave. My brother is here. And… so is my father." She sounds less convinced of the importance about the latter, but the idea is the same: she intends to remain with her family.
"You /think/ you can handle ugly, Zeyta. Be honest with yourself- real honest." Stern eyes attempt to drive M'yck's point home, "You're fierce. And strong. But you've never seen this side of people." Whether she has or not, M'yck will not offer her the benefit of the doubt. "Your brother, your father. You think they won't follow?"
"I know how to be ugly, M'yck." Zeyta shakes her head at him, dodging his gaze. Shifting, she folds her arms, and walks around him, pivoting to plant herself in a seat, pouting. "I'm not having this discussion with you. I don't want to go. And - fine. I don't care. Take my brother and father with you. I am staying." Somehow, with her womanly wiles, she perceives M'yck's attempt at reasoning as a threat made against her instead.
Everything is always personal. Always. "I'm not talking about you- I'm talking about the rest of them!" One hand is fired in the direction of the door, palm up. Bringing both hands up to scrub at his face, a heavy blanket of silence smothers everything in the small cavern. "I'm not leaving this Weyr without you." The silence returns to infiltrate /everything/, before it is broken in the softest of defeated whispers. "But I'm sure this place will crumble soon."
"I'll let Kczyslawborth eat any slimy rat-bastards who raise a hand against me! I'm equipped to handle them!" Zeyta matches M'yck for volume, not gesticulation, her hands tucked under her arms. Stone-faced, she squints hard at him, letting the silence dominate over them. After a long moment that stretches on much longer in her head, "Maybe you should." Her eyes flick up to him, trained on his expression. "I can." She punctuates her sentence into fragments, "Terminate. Your contract." Another pause, then, "So you can leave." There's that non-conventional relationship for you, coming back to bite the odd couple in the ass.
"And when you're found in some back corner in the lower caverns that you prowl so regularly?" When Zeyta waves the contract his face, M'yck simply hardens in his stubbornness. "Us aside, I'm not leaving a helpless thing like you behind. What would you do without your ever present guards?" Inflection indicates it is a serious question, though likely picked up as what it is- jested jab, for good measure.
"I'm not helpless," Zeyta asserts, leaning back against the couch, almost slouching - but not in defeat. "Look, you can sharpen my dagger before you leave. Would that make you feel better?" Parse it how he will: sarcasm or joke, the two are virtually the same to the brownrider. "M'yck," is said in earnest. "I will be fine alone. Chase the future if you want. But I shall count mine in days, not centuries."
Attempting a different route, "You'll do as ordered, recruit." Like a pair of boxers circling in a ring, the two riders dip, duck and jab, though only with their words- so far. "I'm to see to it that the knife stay sharp, not just sharpened once." M'yck's own arms cross about his chest, awaiting the girl's response with all his being.
"I'm not official," Zeyta retorts, flicking at her bare shoulder. Not ranking it is, then. "Well. It seems as if we've reached a stalemate," is the response for all his being.
Grunting, M'yck readies himself for departure, "Get your shit packed." Bending over to swipe the fallen flask from it's resting position, he jams it back in his pocket exhibiting his frustration. "And I mean the shit you'll need. Not the lower caverns' blankets." Both hands rise to brush any gathered dust and lint from his chest, before he runs his hands down his sides. Assuming Zeyta's stance, the large hands pause near his hips, thumbs jammed in his front pockets. "I'm serious," because if you're serious, you can remain blind to the stalemate.
"If," Zeyta engages in a hypothetical, treading dangerous territory, "I ever left, I'm hauling two WAGONLOADS of belongings between Kczyslawborth and Oroqaith." Shouting seems enough to convince her this still isn't happening, as she sits, anchored to the couch in the naked quiet corners, a cavern now filled and amplifying the sounds inside. She musters her most baleful glare at him, with his mocking posture. "And whatever happens, I hate you." She might mean the opposite, might not; it's always a gamble.
Hanging about just long enough to bear witness to Zeyta's additional threats, M'yck stares back towards the tiny figure emitting such impressive volume. Playing the silent game once more, his eyes remain transfixed on her through the declarations of hatred, and, after a few more moments of the silence he abruptly makes for the cavern's exit. Just before his retreat is realized, his last repeated order is growled out, "Pack your shit."
Please, for the love of everything, make babies, you two! Angry law abiding scary babies. Nika will raise them!