====September 26, 2013
====Dimitri, V'dean
====Despite the title, this scene is totally manly. (Dudely?)

Who Dimitri, V'dean
What Despite the title, this scene is totally manly. (Dudely?)
When There is 1 turn 1 month and 18 days until the 12th pass.
Where Nook of the Bowl, Southern Weyr

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Nook of the Bowl
Raw stone juts roughly at these windswept heights, lichen clinging to craggy crevices. The lush Southern landscape drops away steeply to provide a commanding view of the bowl below. To the east beyond the Weyr's rim, when the clouds aren't fleecing in as a thick blanket, a glimmer of water can be seen from which the piercing rays of sunrise appear. Here upon a broad ledge a bench carved into the stone welcomes those looking to get away from it all.
It is Spring and 84 degrees. It is heavily overcast.


It takes a bit of creativity to find somewhere for a Candidate to hide for a self-imposed break, in a place where, for some, ever so judgmental eyes seem to be everywhere at once. It's not that Dimitri's been slacking off (okay, he has occasionally managed to slack a off a little, but still much less than some expected he would) but sometimes you just need your peace and quiet, right? And what with not being able to do his usual thing of wandering off into the wilds… well, here he is. And what a view to keep him company. Not that he's paying much attention to it, seeing as the slightly-wayward Candidate has taken to sitting sideways on the bench with his legs folded underneath him, hus back hunched and his hands make quick work of— sliding a trio of little metal cups in and out of place just in front of him. Back, forth, around another, all in quick but utterly practiced movements of his wrists. Every now and then he pauses to lift one, and every time there is a small, dried seed underneath. Hey, gotta keep busy somehow. Even he appears to be doing it… through trying to trick himself. And is failing.

With an overcast already obscuring the spring sunshine, it's probably easy to miss the nearby spread of a dull colored blue's wings. It is probably even easier to ignore given the general flutter of winged traffic throughout the Weyr's bowl. And yet this particular middling sized dragon just so happens to be circling over the space where the once-entertainer practices with his cups. Ekerth spirals first, wings off, and then appears once more on gliding approach. Instead of veering away he flips his sails neatly into a backwing, landing with minimal scuffing of feet at a near distance to the bench. Whirled eyes don't seem to notice the person already occupying the space, but the rider has the candidate in his sights even as he comes slipping down the blue's shoulder. There's a habitual fluidity to the bounce-step that eases him into an amble towards Dimitri. "Sure looks like you're being kept busy, Curls," he addresses the younger man with a lazy skew of smile. Some rather large, metal implement is balanced lightly against his shoulder. "You're one of the candidates, right?"

Dragons are fine. They're weird, but they're fine. Dimitri's come to live with the fact that they're about. But when ones lands so close, the cups before him are shifted about slightly slower. His attention shifts uneasily between them and the rider as he descends, until eventually the Candidate sits up and lets his hands slip into his lap, the white knot on his shoulder more obviously catching the light. He finds himself smiling, but though it's a thing of confidence, it is also one of habit rather than warmth. "… If I say no, Handsome," nickname received, nickname overly cheerfully dished out, "will you move on? Because something tells me this is a trick question." Then, individually sliding each cup forward with his index finger and into neat line for V'dean, he adds with his eyebrows rising, "Pick one?"

Handsome? "Hm." It slantingly presses his dimple deeper and sets cool green eyes into a closer scan over Dimitri. "Clever, aren't you?" There's a droll lassitude to the way V'dean lets his steps bring him right up to the bench and into the other man's space. Maybe just the cups' space. His tipped gaze doesn't leave the candidate as he leans in to drop the absent tap of a fingertip upon the nearest upturned base. "There's something familiar about you," his cheer is more muted and sly. That rough-surfaced metal bar remains bridged between the curl of a loose fist and his further shoulder. "I'm V'dean," he may as well introduce now that he's intruded. "That's Ekerth." His head tilts a little towards the blue who still seems more interested in watching a cluster of greens perched higher up the cliff. "And you…" a query folds light upon his brow in lead of a broader spread of smile. "Have you ever given a manicure before?"

"Perfect, exactly the one I would've chosen." Dimitri mentions this off-handedly, as though it is part of a routine. And hey, it might well have been, at some point. He lifts it high enough to reveal three seeds underneath, then taps it back down onto the bench with a tinny, hollow clank to sound. "Familiar? Me? Must have one of those faces. Not counting the eyebrows. Those are all original." Then, lifting the cup again, there's nothing underneath! He clanks it over the other two in turn, gathering up all three in one hand before he finally looks back up again. "Though Cerise's got an impressive set of browbristles, come to think of it. Wait -" He pauses, his smile wavering first, then widening in amusement. "… Did you just ask me about manicures?" He leans to the side, giving V'dean a look over of his own and adding with a faux-concerned tone, "Are you— okay? Someone pelt you in the head on your way down?"

A brief flick of gaze follows the cups and their seedless reveal a moment, though V'dean is possibly more entertained by tracking these noteworthy eyebrows of Dimitri's. "Ah huh." Cerise. The closed curve of his smile is reshaping, pressed off kilter by the run of his tongue over teeth. "Familiar," is a reasserted aside, low and flat. There's a little twitch of eyebrow as he withstands the other man's study, his weight shifting back upon his heels. "Not today, they didn't," is a blithe answer for false concern. "Though with girls on fighting dragons, it's a wonder we don't have more riders knocked off from badly slung firestone. Come on." A step scrapes back towards where Ekerth has settled into a crouch and he jostles the bar into a little bounce upon his shoulder. "I'll show you. Manicures. It'll be a…" His smile sharpens, pleased. "Learning experience." It sounds so much better than forced labor, doesn't it?

Though Dimitri's head tilts in what might just be a bit of hesitation on his part, he slides off the bench without much concern, slipping the stacked cups into a pocket as his sandaled feet hit the ground. "Sorry, uh, Dimitri?" Both of his hands are smacked unceremoniously, palms flat onto the front of his vest, demonstratively. "I haven't… uh." He continues with considerably more cheer to his tone, though there is a certain… disconnect. Like a performer who's said his lines so often he's forgotten the meaning. "I don't like the dragons very much, and they tend not to like me! I know, candidate! But hey, forced into it, you know the drill. Remember that time, that time someone got banished for a whole, for suggesting selling one of their eggs? That'd be me. Great fun." Oh how the reasons for not taking part in this manicure come flowing, almost as though it's something to brag about. Regardless, he does step slowly forward. Even if it's just to peer at Ekerth as he saunters closer, neck craning as his hands clasp together behind his back.

Muted green eyes hang on Dimitri as he gives his name, leaving the rider back-stepping as he watches the demonstrative smacking that shakes loose a tumble of excuses. Does V'dean know the drill? Maybe there's a fleeting moment of brittleness come over the lopsided smile pinned in place by that dimple. "Yes, you. Dimitri. I caught your sister washing your dress. Lovely thing." His grin is mobile again, stretching carelessly into something that would be more of a leer if there were any real intensity behind it. As it is, the rider is more absorbed with the casual collision of the flat of his shoulders into the broad spring of his dragon's barrel. "You just don't like dragons? As a group." He gives a little shake of his head, bemused, before tilting a look up towards the blue. Ekerth, meanwhile, has angled the wedge of his head half towards Dimitri to make the observation from multifaceted eyes more obvious. The way breath huffs from his snout may sound suspiciously like a caustic chuckle. "He doesn't really like most people, but he's no… Caelth." For example. "He doesn't know you yet, to know if he dislikes you." Maybe this is a plus? V'dean is still smirking that easy smile, anyhow, as he finally swings the dragon sized file down from his shoulder to weigh its far end in his opposite palm.

Oh sorry, was someone talking? Dimitri seems almost too distracted to be listening, looking this way and that while he makes his way closer. "Well!" His own smile sits on his face a little too frozen to be completely genuine, but he's his head head up and his chest puffed out and he's totally ready for anything. Maybe. Even his voice is loud and clear, laced with the very thing that makes performers tick. "Have I got good news for you - I just remembered something. I cannot be disliked today. I've found that it is impossible." See, even the look he gives Ekerth upon being observed is one of utter cockiness, so confident in this FACT that he's just stated as his hands lift to adjust the largely unlaced hem of his shirt. Like popping a collar— if one were there to start with. Totally likeable. "… And also." His hands drop slightly lower now, fingers yet on the fabric. "I'm probably not very tasty. Pretty sure I tasted like ale at some point, now it's probably just… stale bread."

The mellow greens and blues of becalmed seas flicker sluggishly across the shining facets of that distinctly inhuman eye as it remains angled upon the cocky performer. At such a scale, the wet suck of lips pulling away from gums is distinctly audible as a green-tinged tongue flicks out to run over a flash of bright teeth and soft-leather blue hide. "Funny, we've talked about ale-soaking his meals," V'dean drolls with his own flash of teeth, unvoiced laughter bright in his eyes. "Stale bread," one the other hand, is less appetizing, seems to grant the lazy lift of a shoulder. "Yep. Half a harper," the blue's rider goes on to note with more private amusement. "You'd almost think you didn't spend centuries on dragon back. How did that work, then? All gather together at some evacuation point, hold your nose and close your eyes and here we go?"

"You know what, I try to forget about that little tidbit. Not unlike my sister and her memories of the Headman on that blessed night, I'm sure." Because surely everyone remembers THAT, the way she made a point of helping more than a handful of people to, the morning after. The cocksure flow of words continues, and his smile momentarily morphs into something a little less reserved as his eyebrows twitch higher, but Dimitri doesn't seem too concerned at showing… well, a bit of concern across his features a moment later. A brief look of suspicion is shot between rider and dragon, but ends up back on the former in the end. "How long've you been doing…" He waves a hand at Eketh, without looking toward that — sharp sharp-toothed creature. "The… uh. Rider thing, then."

"And yet, both seem destined to stand out in our memories like a boy in a pink dress in the living caverns," V'dean muses with a fanciful slide of his sharp grin. His weight shifts again, back to his feet instead of leaning against Ekerth. The large file is swinging again, now from one hand to the other so he can run a palm along the foreleg that's lifting as the blue shifts his own weight with another low huff of breath. "Oh," the man squints up like he can see the time stretched before him. "Just about a dozen turns? I was younger than you," in any case, he tips a look back over Dimitri as he slides under that raised paw. It shadows half his torso when draped over his shoulder, gunmetal claws flexed forward into the air before him. "How old are you? The older one, aren't you?" The latter carries a touch of dubiousness.

Ah yes, that pink dress. If its mention is meant to be a jab at the Candidate's confidence, it misses, because Dimitri's practically beaming. Ah, good memories. Somehow. But he's still watching what V'dean is doing closely… although it's a little like he's just doing so in case an opportunity for a joke comes up. "Twenty turns now, ought'a be. Had some older, some younger, forget how many, really." His tone of voice borders on the drearily bored discussing it, and in the same breath he continues with a half-formed sneer, "How often do you have to do that?"

"I suppose you people would have trouble keeping track," V'dean notes with a similar lack of interest, no apparent intention at a jab in the offhand comment. He's running a thumb along a burred edge of claw before deciding where to apply the file. "It depends." A stretchy smile flashes back over to Dimitri, smirkingly cognizant of how helpful such an answer must be. "About every seven." If he must put a number to it. As the file rasps against claw, Ekerth lifts his snout from the vague scent of its dust in the air. "Lots of time between can make them more brittle. Landings scuff, hunting chips, blah blah and so on." One more good swipe puts punctuation to his words and then he's lifting the oversized file out with an outstretch of arm to Dimitri. "Do one."

Oh, if only Dimitri could refuse. If only he wasn't right here, right now, for whatever reasons he's got to for it. It might be clear, by the way his gaze flits to the side for a second, that he's thinking about it. "You don't take shit, do you. Just right to the point." There's something vaguely torn about the way he says this, stuck right in between approving of the notion and regretting it. But he seems to be trying to ignore the latter, stepping closer yet, albeit sort of lackadaisical. "Alright, gimme that. I'll file these things so well, your beast'll be dancing out of here."

"Curls, I find there's plenty enough shit that's unavoidable, so I'll deal with that instead of the shit I don't have to." V'dean is all cheery divoted dimple as he answers and gives over the file. "Do you hear that, Ekerth?" He rocks a step back, shoulder still acting as prop for the dragon's beefy wrist as he makes way for Dimitri to get in at those hovered claws. "Dancing. Isn't that going to be a sight." The backhanded slap he teases into the blue's chest dislodges a fat-chance rumble. "I hear it's not too terribly different than smoothing down a runner's hoof," is shared in a slim note of helpfulness. "You work with them at all in your caravan?"

Dimitri watches the shifting and manifestation of a rumble with clear doubt on his face, despite him idly shifting his own weight from foot to foot. "Toward the end, sure. Weren't enough of us left for me to get away with the easy excuses. And even then, I think they've kicked me more often than I've gotten close to one." … Take that, logic. He seems vaguely uncomfortable with the weight of the file, awkwardly holding onto it before reaching a hand out to let it touch claw. Perhaps a little too fast. Let's get this OVER WITH. "You'll be dancing like Cerise. Only without the scandal. Or with, if you want. Do they make ankle-showing dresses that big?" This is a serious concern, if his lowering eyebrows are any indication.

"That is a bitch, when your excuses fail," V'dean… sympathizes? Not that there's much sign of sympathy sketched into the way he leans lazily against the brace of Ekerth's leg, arms falling into a loose cross as he spectates. "Less big than if a dress had to cover all four of his ankles," the rider offers in partial easing of such important concerns. "I've not seen your sister dance. She said it makes her good marks." The thought is renewing the deeper curl of his smirk. "Do you dance, too? Or is it not that kind of dancing." Also, as his fingers lift to idly scritch at a scruffed jaw: "Just don't wear down enough to catch at his quicks. You'll know if you hit it; you'll be halfway down his throat." His grin is joking, right? As is the little curl of lip that shows the dragon's pointed teeth, hovering overhead up there?

Must be joking. That's probably what Dimitri's telling himself. His grin widens with anxiety more than anything else, should his higher tone of voice be any indication. "I would, but… you know, it'd make her feel bad, and that's not very sibling-like, right?" He chuckles, but it's off-kilter and dragged out just slightly too much. "I'm like a— something—" His eyes flick up to that maw. Those teeth. And then back down again, as he starts uncertain work and concludes, "-somethingverygraceful." If no one hears from him within the next few days, someone be sure to ask: ale or stale bread, or entirely something else.

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