==== February 13, 2014
==== Thierry, Veresch
==== Little girls and disgruntled boys don't mix well.

Who Thierry, Veresch
What Little girls and disgruntled boys don't mix well.
When It is dawn of the sixteenth day of the first month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
Where Igen Central Bowl

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Central Bowl
Cradled, childlike, in an easterly mountainous embrace, the steppes of the central bowl nestle cozily between lake and weyr. The latticework of dusty adobe paths spider out from the southerly Weyr Road, the wagon-ruts of which curve lazily to the northeastern bazaar, the adobe sprawl of the New Weyr reflected in the lake that dominates a large portion of outdoor Igen. A small footpath, just as abused, ambles away from the shores, travelling over rock and hill to the northern dragonet complex and branching itself due west to end at the entrance of the blessedly cool inner caverns. One cracked path, faint with disuse, leads southeast to the crumbling ruins of Igen-that-was. All around, the dizzying heights of the caldera's sharp-sloped sides are pocked here and there with ledges, the weyrs' draconic occupants needing no path to guide their way.


Early morning sees the beginnings of Weyr-traffic stirring, especially from the vantage point of the edge of the bowl. That's where lucky Thierry has been stationed for his oh-so-enthusiastic overnight watch duty, at a post that overlooks the bowl from the outer reach of the bazaar. Even though he's got his home to his back the teen looks uncomfortable at being able to actually see dragon traffic so close - or could that be because he's been up all night? He's certainly got the scruffy stubble and dark rings under his eyes as testament to the latter. Lazily, lax in his duty, he leans back against a handy wall, digging in the pocket of his uniform to pull out a toke, which he sets about lighting.

With just a bit-past-dawn sun showing, there are more things out at play than sightseers, surly guards and bazaarfolk only going home /now/. Veresch is one of them, reluctantly subscripted into running a message at an ungodly hour of the morning. That only took her five minutes. More than an hour's been taken up by skulking around the edges of the bazaar, trying to blend in as much as possible in order to a) escape her family and b) not garner any more work for at least another hour. She says nothing of the puff from the toke idling ambling past her nose, but a slight cough possibly alerts him to the presence of the scrawny girl crouched down between a pile of baskets. She's turning her face away (unveiled, of course), but not before it contorts for the peculiar, acrid smell of the smoke.

Movement /does/ catch Thierry's attention, as does the cough, and he zeroes in on the crouching Veresch with narrowed eyes. After a long moment of glaring and puffing on his toke, he blows a stream of smoke in her direction, followed by a 'whaddya gonna do about it?' look, and a rough "Beat it, kid." Someone sounds sleep-groggy!

Funny, it's almost as if there are little figures in the stream of smoke that flows her way. If she squints her eyes just right, they're little red-tinged circles… oh. No. Those are his eyes. It doesn't take much to recognise the rest of the sleep-deprived face, and she stretches to her feet warily and with an awkward kind of gangly grace. "Beat what?" she asks, eyes darting around curiously. "There aren't any drums around."

"Heh, so fucking funny." Thierry's sarcasm practically oozes from his smoke-gruff words, while he sneers at the younger girl. "Beat your fucking feet on the damned ground and get the shell out of my sight back to your sharding family so's they can sell you off to the highest bidder, smartarse." And he says all that on nearly one breath, too! One smoke-laden breath at that. The reluctant guard recruit flicks his dark locks out of his face, all the better to glower down at Veresch.

Veresch takes a bit to parse that sentence, face going through a glorious array of expressions: bafflement, a tinge of fear, stubborn irritation, a spark of anger. Then, "D'you smoke those things to give you extra hot air? Or, d'you know, do you do it to look older? 'cause you're gonna have to flip your hair a whole lot more often before I'm gonna listen to a half-awake ass pretty-boy just 'cause he's feeling manky." There's a pause in which she looks at him, curiously. "Looking manky too." Despite all of that, there are plenty of signs of tension in her scrawny frame for those with eyes to see, just like a feline about to hiss, scratch and flee.

Oh, she's /feisty/. It doesn't settle well with Thierry, whose dark eyes narrow as his lip curls into an unpleasant smile-snarl hybrid. With the toke hanging from his lips, he crosses over to the back-talking girl, looming over her with a sneer. The tab's moved from his lips to his fingers after he draws on it, smoke tainting his words as he speaks and exhales at the same time."You keep talking that way and I'll get my boys to teach you what a good girl /should/ be doing with her tongue," he snarls, ending it with a bitterly sarcastic smile. And the ash, from the end of his toke? It's flicked at Veresch.

Veresch isn't quite butch enough to stare him down whilst he's looming, nor when he's flicking ash at her. Nevermind that's rude, it's also oddly scary. She turns her body sideways - sometimes scrawny is good - and twists out of the position he's pinned her in, stomping down (maybe not so) accidentally on one of his feet on her way out. "Figures," she says primly. "You smoke it 'cause otherwise you talk nonsense. I can understand, 'cause not many people want to talk nonsense, but they're bad for you, you know. They make you sound like you gargled a midden." It likely won't be sexy for at least another two years.

There's no way Thierry's letting her get away /that/ easy, not when she's trying to insult him. He reaches out with his toke-free hand, roughly grabbing her arm and dragging her back towards him, so he can lean over her and blow smoke right in her face. "Watch your tongue, little girl," he hisses through gritted teeth. His fingers tighten on her upper arm, digging in enough to maybe even leave a bruise. "Don't fuck with me. Girls can't keep up with the big boys, so don't even fucking try it." He lets go abruptly, using the same motion to give Veresch a shove away from him. "Now get the shell outta my sight."

Cough. /Cough/. It's one thing to accidentally inhale, but when someone's leaning that close, there's no way Veresch's eyes isn't going to water. The arm is bird-thin under his grasp, and so tightly grasped that her eyes water all over. "Let go of me!" she snarls in a voice that is only a few decibels away from panic. For that reason (and because he's annoying and pretty and an /ass/) she hauls back in his hold, kicks him like her daddy taught her with rude boys, and tries to run, all without seeing whether she actually impacts.

She mightn't get him /right/ where she intended, but Veresch gets damned close to Thierry's most precious parts! His reaction is to hunch up protectively, and she's able to get away… not that he would have /followed/ her. That would require effort that he just can't be bothered to make.

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