====January 11, 2014
==== Cerise, V'dean
==== Two strong points of view are exchanged but consensus is not reached.

Who Cerise, V'dean
What Two strong points of view are exchanged but consensus is not reached.
When There are 0 turns, 2 months and 27 days until the 12th pass.
Where Ekerth's Ledge, Southern Weyr

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Mulholland Overlook
Raw stone juts roughly at these windswept heights, lichen clinging to craggy crevices. Here a pitch of rock stretches into a broad ledge, big enough to host even the largest of oldtime dragons for all that its middling sized resident prefers to stand solitary sentinel. The lush Southern landscape drops away steeply to provide a commanding view of the far below bowl. 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. Near the wall, the natural contours have been shaped into a bench that waits in want of cushions.

Shadows stretch long within the weyrbowl as another clear skied spring day starts to wind to a close. There's still something cool that ruffles in the early evening breezes as they come off Azov's waters to course over the craggy heights of Southern's upper reaches, keeping the lingering brilliance of sun's rays from feeling too hot. It's still bright enough that a northern native finds a wide brimmed hat and full sleeved shirt to be called for, though the cuffs have been unbuttoned and one is shoved up beyond an elbow. The cuffs of his pants also settle on bare skin, the continent's longer style falling nearly halfway down his shin, as the naked soles of his feet prop against the warmed rock of the natural bench. And over his thighs V'dean has spread the heavy array of a fighting harness, the mass still vaguely stinking of stone from the morning's live drills. A bucket of water is at hand and a sponge in hand, picking up lather from a curling bar of yellow glycerine soap to spread across the wide straps. He's alone, Ekerth possibly tucked away in the darker recesses of the weyr or maybe cloistered in some other shadowed nook all together. There is a cushion though - too plush for outdoor fabric, it must have been stolen off a couch.

At this altitude, the rush of wind captured in concave wingsails can only ever be a deliberate approach- in this instance 'sails of white-specked cobalt adorning a blue so weathered by age, he bears more than a passing resemblance to a brightly hued raisin. Cushion, straps and rider are buffeted by the gusts of his arrival, as chipped talons scrabble for a place at the ledge's jutting edge. Astride is a a man equally aged- old enough that he wears full leathers in spite of the day's fading warmth, goggles and all- and a woman with bare head, mussed curls and loose cotton garments akin to pyjamas. It's she who's making a move to swing her leg over and dismount, hopping neatly down but stretching up to receive the messenger-style bag the elder is lowering after her. Then, as one does when about to be struck by heavy winds, she hunches over and scuttles towards V'dean on his bench, giving the blue room to slap wings at the air and topple from the ledge. It's an arrival and departure that take all of thirty seconds and when the sound of wingbeats fade, the bluerider is left to look up at Cerise, who has one hand held fisted against her hip, with the backlit sun shrouding her expression in gloom. Her tone of voice gives a hint though: slightly peeved. "…want me I should give you a three second head start?"

There's a lifted squint of green eyes as that tell-tale snap of sails sounds, an easy smile quick to bloom across the resident rider's face even as he braces against the gusts and scuttled grit of the old blue's landing. It spills into lopsided slant as he lifts a lather-laced hand to shade over his gaze while he looks towards the descending passenger. There's not much time for him to tidy his work in those scant seconds of her arrival, though the sponge is tipped from the edge of his fingers into the bucket so that he can reach for a small towel kept at his side for wiping off his hands. "That depends," he supposes with more humor than caution. His dimple pins his skewed grin as he scans over her silhouette with gaze narrowed against the backlighting glare. "Hi Cerise. Did you bring me something?" In that bag there.

Ahh, dimples. The greenrider's head cocks to the side; she must be charmed. "That I did." And, outlined as she is, it isn't difficult to see that Cerise is indeed slipping hand into bag. Her head has turned and tucked down, the bag's flap lifted against her wrist as she rummages- and comes up with a bean-filled bag of the sort once used by D'tri to practice his juggling. Is V'dean familiar with these? Maybe the beany hiss and rattle as she tosses it once, twice, three times up and down her palm- before snapping it from the hip in his direction. He makes an easy target, sitting there like that, being conveniently blinded. And she's quick with the reloading too, pulling out another. Pew pew!

Dimples ergo charmed, it must be so. Perhaps V'dean feels safe in this assumption, even as his unexpected guest goes digging. He makes little preparation despite the warning sciff, sciff the juggling ball makes against her palm. No, the bluerider just sits there with the barest start of a deeper rumple of hesitation forming between already sun-squinted brows. Blinded and weighed down, though perhaps he is starting to sense he may want to do something about at least the latter, His hands drop down, with the cloth still caught against one palm, to start gathering the pieces of harness together from their spread across his legs. It means that there's no chance that he's going to get a hand up before that first shot is pelting against his torso. "Whoa!" There's a clatter of buckles and a thwump of leather as the bundle slides from his lap, slow at first and then pulled down by its own weight to a thick tangle at his feet. Not that his feet are there anymore, as his knees jerk up and he beetles up against the onslaught with a wave of forearms making rather hopeless shield against the projectiles. "Hey! Augh! What… Cerise!"

The second is aimed for his shoulder, and then there's the hiss of a third, bounced in her hand as the first was. Cerise pauses there, at least, reloaded but holding her fire. A step is taken to bring her in close enough that she can thump a toe against the harness- though without the force behind the throwing, because she's only wearing light cotton slip-ons, and doesn't feel like breaking anything. This is point-making time. "Not even once? You ass." Now the third beanbag goes flying, flicked with her wrist and delivered unto the sweep of thigh pulled up to protect certain of V'dean's vital interests. "You couldn't even fucking be bothered to check in? Send a note or a bottle? Steal peeks through the fucking huge ass door? What's wrong with you?" Aaaand there she goes, thrusting her hand into the bag at her hip to sift around for another projectile.

Yeah, V'dean can feel the points. Good chances they'll leave bruises. He's peeking over the high hitch of a protectively folded elbow as the hiss announces her juggling pause, not much more able to decipher her expression against the glare even at this closer proximity. "Wh…" He's starting to repeat a little more firmly when the flick of her wrist sends the next lob into his leg. "Ow! Careful." This is more grit-toothed, and perhaps he's not listening so closely as her delve into the bag leaves him an opportunity to dive after her arms. "What's wrong with you!" The forward lurch leaves his feet stamping down on the treacherous surface of the fallen harness, but at least he's still got most of his weight balanced upon the rocky bench — although the cushion goes sliding off to the side. He grips low for her forearms, trying to get control of her wrists with a hard press of fingers before she can flick off any more shots. "Fuck," his voice is a low, flustered scrape. "When did I sign up to be your fucking nursemaid? Cerise, stop."

It might be a good sign that she doesn't try to twist away after his hands close around her wrists. Or maybe Cerise has simply gone so unhinged she can't recognize that her rampage has been brought to a halt. One small tug is given, but it's a token effort, made before she lapses into bulldog-jawed glaring. "My. Nursemaid." Now that…that tone used is slightly more dangerous. "Oh, aye, I'm sorry. I mistook meeting every day to run for the past six months as somethin' worth a quick 'Glad you didn't die, sorry your dragon's a cripple'. Y'know, like friends do?" That's right, she's uttered the F-word- the bluerider is officially in trouble. But, signalling at least a willingness to negotiate terms, she lets her fingers open enough that the latest beanbag slithers from her palm, bounces off of his wrist and falls to be lost in the tangle of leather around their feet. "Are you so much a baby then?"

At least one token tug isn't likely to pitch him off his precarious perch. V'dean stares down the glare from both Cerise and the sun, his jaw rather tight for its own part. Despite, or maybe because of, the danger, enough lax goes into his arms that he can shove his bare toes into the wind of leather and scoot a little more securely back to a seat on the stone. "Oh yes," his tone is a little too bright, a flash managed in still-squinting eyes. "Like friends do. Didn't…" Maybe it's the released ball that distracts him, or maybe it's just the continuing sputter of his thoughts. "Would that really have been helpful? Hey Cerise, Jiamoth, heard you're crippled now. Well doesn't that suck," he narrates bluntly with sarcastically false cheer. "I did look in," though there's a slim note of hedge in the claim as his tone turns ornery. "I'm sorry, we've been busy. You know, doing that rider shit while you've been sitting on your ass in the Weyr."

He's earned the few seconds reprieve that follows his punctuating statement, filled with Cerise just staring at him. Staring hard, but it is still just staring. And then? Then it's Bitra unleashed, her origins never more clear than in the dust-covered, shit-mulched brogue that comes pouring ripe and heated out of her chest. She doesn't raise her voice to fling invectives at him but there's some carefully chosen emphasizing occurring. "Really? Really? Y'realize you're only making yourself sound like more an ass, here? Like, are you tryin' to be that big a bastard, or is it just slipping out like your asshole and your mouth decided to switch places for the day?" Her fingers stiffen and splay, and flap flap flap, gesturing made on a much smaller scale in time with the punch of her insults. "I don't fuckin' believe you, you didn't look in. Jia'd have told me. Or Caelth would've. Admit that you're a pansy bastard who couldn't handle it."

V'dean blink, blinks under the scathing force of this newest onslaught, his molars pressed tight and expression screwed stubborn. The shackel of his grip is loose enough to float a twist about the changing shape of her gesturing hands, though the lock of his elbow is eager to keep the minature punches of her fingertips at bay. He flinches a little at the flapping gesture, the motion found in a slight ratcheting lift of his chin. "It was busy," he grits tightly through his teeth, though this excuse made of the clinic's bustle is hardly an argument he cares to test the strength of. "I couldn't handle it," is granted as all quarrelsomeness and no apology. He's not exactly falling over himself to admit to the rest of it. "You have plenty of friends," he presumes. "Nora said you were insensible on Fellis anyway. And then — what was I going to say? That it was all fine? That everything's gonna be alright?" His head shakes, scorn dark upon his brow. "You should have never been up there in the first place. Talk about not being able to handle it."

What had been low-grade tension running through the arms he's kept held- presumably safe from actual punches- goes full bore stiffness with that final winning blow. Her expression, already gruff, goes rictus. In one fell swoop, V'dean secures himself argument victory, and finally provokes Cerise into trying to shake him off. But she's several weeks soft now, on a diet of carbs and whiskey; if he doesn't want to let her go (possibly to flail at his head) then he could maintain that grip. Though she is stepping back, and might be looking to create some distance there. "…y'know, maybe I wanted friends of the sort who wouldn't be feeding me lines of bullshit about things being alright? That's mostly what I've had since the fellis stopped. So…aye. Thanks," with one last forceful twist'n'tug, "for thinking about me. I mean, really. And you don't have to thank me for proving your asshole theories right. Jia's bespeaking the elevator rider now."

As great as head flails sound… No, V'dean isn't particularly excited about releasing her arms while she's still fuming. Instead her backwards step has his own toes sliding for secure footing amongst the wind of leather. He still wears his scowl, though her words pull little twitches of discontent — or possibly unvoiced argument — at his mouth. "Oh, please," the bluerider patronizes even as her twist wrenches free of his grip. A hand drops to take a controlling grab of her bag of ammunition instead as he paces after Cerise. "You wanted the bullshit. You just want it sold better. You want to believe that your life wasn't so shitty that putting yourself into harm's way to be killed or maimed was the best option." There's a ragged stringing of raw tapped anger beneath the rapid tension of his voice. "Or that you weren't so stupid as to believe that it was more than that. So, you're welcome," sarcastic green eyes drop a scan over her. "No shit — this is what you signed up for. Sorry the odds got ya, doll. Don't take it out on me. I don't need my nose rubbed in it."

Another solid hit. Freed, Cerise drops her shoulder and pivots with her arm crooked up, elbow bent to catch- and hold- the bag's strap. He can't have it, not without some prying, but he's welcome to hold it while she works on regaining some composure. There's a weight in there that beanbags alone can't account for. With the wing tugging at hair and clothes, the greenrider focuses on pulling in several cleansing breaths- he's likely to hear the hiss they make, passing in and out of gritted teeth- before she can pull on something similar to a calmer tone. "Right then. So what you're saying is I should've brought rocks instead of a few dried beans. I'll remember that for next time." Not that there's likely to be a next time- Cerise stares with dedication out over the admittedly splendid view, shoulders stiff and chin up. The distant creak of wing leather approacheth and she waits for it, folding her arms to secure the lock she has on the bag.

V'dean will just hold onto that strap then, thanks. Especially given that extra weight. Especially after she mentions rocks. Even if it leaves him there standing awkwardly beside Cerise's chin lofting and arm folding. He has his own persistent frown and firmly jutting jaw to add to the picture. "I told you," he'll note once he gets his voice stripped back to dispassionate, with only a little trace of haughty to flavor it. Maybe it's that all her staring is just too much. Maybe it's the promise of protection, or at least of a witness, that the sound of the arriving transport dragon provides. In any case, the bluerider hazards releasing the strap of her armlocked bag. He takes a wary step backwards, toes stretching a little unsteadily up from the bite of a sharp bit of grit. He's not quite sure he wants to spare the hand for raking though his hair, but the pull of habit is too great as it sends his fingers arching back and ending in a broad pinch at his neck while a sighed breath bypasses his thinly pressed mouth.

It's a wait of only seconds and then the same grey-streaked blue vaults past the ledge, the wind from his wings curling around the pair- and the harness and the cushion and fresh grit!- as he brakes sharply to settle into place. The look that swings towards those present, once the beast is down and crouched, could be classified as "puzzled". Eyes spin, jaw gapes. Wasn't he just here? What's up with you kids? The old man between his 'ridges knows better though, his mouth set in impassive lines, the hand held down towards Cerise a neutral offering. Before she goes to take it though, she swings a flat look towards the other bluerider present. "So y'did, and Faranth, it must feel so good gettin' to say it. Been awhile since you had anything like a win, aye? Good job, man. Enjoy it." The bag, thumping hard against her hip, is slipped free of her shoulder and slung up to the waiting rider, before she claps hands to straps to haul herself up behind him. The blue's rumble drifts out over the bowl, granite against marble scratchy- acknowledgement and warning both, as he shuffles his butt around towards V'dean in preparation for the drop.

The old rider may not press, but the obvious puzzlement of it in the dragon's gaze only hardens the younger bluerider's irritability. It's tense about his eyes, more obvious from within the shadow of the grizzled old blue when he lifts the hard angle of his eyes to meet flatness served up by mossy gold. His reaction is just a slight tightening twitch at first, and then his gaze breaks away with a drop of his chin. Beneath his frown, his tongue takes a run over his teeth. It doesn't really look like enjoyment, but V'dean doesn't have anything else to offer. The dragon butt swings and he scuffs back across the stoney ledge without another look up, his shoulders hunched up against the oncoming wash of takeoff as he goes back to straps and soap.

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