Who

Clementine, Sammael

What

Sammael wants to steal a runner, Clementine is having none of it.

When

It is midmorning of the fourth day of the seventh month of the fifth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Stables, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 03 Aug 2015 07:00

 

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How about this, you figure out how to say please?


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Stables

The stone stables of Southern sweep breezily in arches and vaulted ceilings, done in the same architecture that figures so prominently within the inner caverns. A half-loft in the back shows neatly stacked hay bales, the sweet scents from the fodder drifting down to commingle with the aroma of runner and leather and sweat. There, broad box stalls house inhabitants safely away from the fancies of dragons: nickers and restless stompings fill the air, nirvana to those so inclined.
You see Galeros, Pollux, Pride, Wrath, Envy, Gluttony, Karo, Pecan, and Cold Magic here.
Clementine is here.
Obvious exits:
Gate Stone Archway Loft


Today is kind of miserable, isn't it? Clouds overhead and that storm in the morning, at least it's passed. But the place keeps getting drenched with occasional showers. The morning chores are out of the way and Clementine finds herself back inside the stables proper. It's from the loft overhead that she enters, climbing down to the main floor with bits of hay stuck to her person. Her hair swept backwards and up, but still a piece has managed to attach to her ponytail. Frowning she picks it out on her way over to one of the stalls, pausing to make cooing noises to the newly birthed runner and its mother inside. There are some other people coming in and out, apprentices and stablehands that are there to clean and do other boring jobs.

In contrast to Clementine's purposeful business of being in the stables, Sammael's quick duck into the stables is nothing less than clandestined. Dripping from head to toe, the bartender looks around quickly, the steel-grey overcast light brightens the vibrant yellows and browns of the stable's hay and dirt. Running his fingers through short-cropped blond hair, Sammael gives one of the stablehands a dirty look for giving him a curious one, then he strides towards the stalls. He looks - for all intents and purposes - like he's about to partake of grand-theft-runner. Clementine is glanced at while she coos at the runner, but he walks right past. Close enough to nearly brush his soaked sleeve against her, before he stops in front of a big, black runner with gorgeous conformation. "You'll do." That runner is likely someone's show runner. And prooooobably not out for loan. Especially not with 'Rupert's Pumperstilknickel', the most pretentious name ever. Does Sammael care? Probably not, because his hand is already on the stall's lock, tugging it open.

As much as Clementine is falling in love with the cute baby runner that's nuzzling her hand right now, she's not completely oblivious to Sammael's entrance. He's given the briefest glance as he passes, after all people enter the stables all the time throughout the day and it has little to do with her. However, him tugging at the lock to Rupert's Pumperstilknickel's stall does get her attention. And not in a good way, she turns on him, eyebrows drawing together. "Uh, no." She frowns, step fowards and puts her hand over the lock. Possibly over his fingers, whatever. "He will not do. Since he isn't yours. Now, can I help you with something?" By 'help' she means usher you out of here since you don't belong, mmkay?

"What?" Sammael's eyes burn into the girl's hand - if looks could kill, her hand would be a sizzling mass of pain - for her audacity in stopping him. "This runner needs to be taken out of his stall." Belligerance is etched in every line, every tight, chiseled feature of an expression that brings those storm clouds inside. "I need in that stall and I need that runner." Fingers close over the lock and while she might be preventing him from opening, good luck getting his hand off of it. Sammael inches into her space. Defiant. Challenging.

"You heard me." Clementine isn't about to be pushed around by Sammael, just like she's not about to be pushed around by some oversized herdbeast out in the field. And you don't get to be a journeyman anything in nowtime Pern if you're pushover (unless you're sleeping with everyone, but that's another story). When he inches into her space, she lifts her chin to meet his eyes. Her jaw sets and there's steel there as she slips herself between him and the stall. "His owner can come and do that or one of us, at his appointed open air times. Not now and not by you, whoever you are." Burn holes in her with your eyes all you want, you're not Cyclops and this isn't the X-Men.

Sammael narrows his eyes and then backs up with his hands lifted, as if he's caved (for the moment). Listen, Sammael would totally love if this were X-men and he could burn holes in people with his eyes. Ahem. "Look. I just need in that stall. I don't care about," he leans around the herder and eyes the pretentious name, "Pumperfucker the horse." Back to her, the bartender turns his attention. "So if you want to, you can go in there and get the thing that got left in there before Mr. Pretentious got his ass put in there." Technically, a horse and not an ass, but who's counting?

Clementine is suspicious by nature, perhaps. Because she doesn't take her hand off the lock and she doesn't move away from the stall door. "Right. You said you needed a runner. You said this one would do." That's a bit of a difference from 'I need something in the stall' and she's locked onto that. Irritation lines her face, pulling plump lips into a frown. It's her turn to stare lasers up at the bartender, not trusting anything about this situation. And certainly not trusting this stranger.

"I do need a runner," Sammael states, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, affecting a nonchalant slouch that's not quite tension-free. In fact, the man looks like he's poised to action, though Clementine couldn't know that's his usual stance. "But I also need my shit that's in the back of that stall." He gives a belligerent chin-nod in the stall's direction. He takes a step closer. "I need to get to the Hold. I'd rather not walk the fifty-some-odd miles there myself, and I sure as shit ain't taking a dragon." Listen, he distrusts them, okay? "So, you get me a runner, and if you don't want me going into that weird-ass runner's stall, then turn your sweet ass around and get it for me." Sammael has never really had … good manners.

"Oh, you need your shit that's in the back of the stall. In the back of one of my stalls." Clem lifts an eyebrow, still not giving him access to his things. The attitude and the lack of manners is what does it for her, really. When so much of your life is fighting to prove how equal you are, well. You get pissy when some meathead tells you to turn around your 'sweet ass'. "How about this, you figure out how to say please? And I'll consider it." And then she smiles, which would be sweet. If she wasn't preparing to be a total bitch about this entire affair.

She's a bitch and Sammael's a dick. They'll get along so well (sarcasm). When they aren't killing each other. "Yeah, my shit." Sammael strides forward, purposefully slow, until he's right there. He leans down until his face is close to hers, with the muscle in his jaw flexing. "Please." Tone is low and quiet, carrying a thicker accent around the edges that points everywhere and nowhere. "Would you go in there and dig through the hay until you get to the bottom and the bag that's buried there." His arms slowly fold across the width of his chest, his hands clenched tight enough to pull out the shape of the muscles of his forearms before the quarter sleeves hide the way biceps flex. The veins are pushed up as Sammael controls his temper. "It's brown. The bag." The squeak of his molars can be heard before another, "Please," is ground out from the hellfire depth of a rage that never ceases. Darker blue eyes meet lighter blue eyes; his gaze does not shift ever from hers.

Some people enjoy that kind of dynamic. It's up in the air whether or not Clem is going to be one of them. She does seem to be getting some kind of satisfaction out of this, but it's probably more the part where Sammael is saying please than anything else. The journeyman's smile widens, sweet-but-not-so-sweet at that painfully eeked out pleasantry. Her chin lifts up a smidge and there's a long pause to draw the whole thing out before she slips her hand to the key ring on her belt. Maybe all the locks are the same or she just happens to know this one. Her nimble fingers find the right one easily enough, insert and twist, letting the lock pop open. It's slipped out of the metal loop but kept in her hand. Before she swings wide the stall door, "Try not to annoy him." Apparently she's not going to dig around in the straw for him.

Sammael watches very carefully how Clementine opens that stall door, noting the position of her keys and the way she handles them. When the door's open, he gives her a dark look and then walks past her, not really being courteous in giving her space. "I'll try," but the tone implies he doesn't really care. Sorry, Clementine, Sammael's just a dick at times. However, he does go straight to the back where he digs through the hay — fluffs of it flying behind him; he's really lucky that runner is like as tame as a slug, because Pumperstilknickel just stands there. Masticating on some feed. Yum-yum. Finally, the bartender unearths a bag and slings it over his shoulder, before turning around to exit the stall. "I need a runner." Like it's runner shopping season in the stables!

Clementine smirks when he goes past, checking out the way he flings the hay around looking for his bag. Look, not just men can be pervy creeps that check out asses. When he finally emerges again and makes his blunt and not so polite request, she arches an eyebrow at him and just leans against the outside of the stall. If Sammael peeks around, he can see that the other ones are like this. Locked. She fingers the key ring on her belt again very deliberately before giving him a tiny little shrug. "That's unfortunate. I'm not in the habit of just giving things up to demanding men who no manners."

Sammael’s eyes do glance towards the runners collected in their nicely locked stalls. Then his eyes come to rest on the girl that’s keeping them from him - the pervy girl, apparently. The bartender closes his eyes in a bid for patience, the muscle of his jaw twitching beneath the growth that frames his jaw. “I need a runner, please.” Opening his eyes, he even manages to crook a boyish grin that almost fits his face if it weren’t for the rage-fire soul of his blue eyes. “I need to go to the Hold,” maybe his business is that important that it’s lit a fire under his skin because there’s a burning desire that limns his bones and tightens his muscles. “And I need a runner to do this.” Beat. “Please.” Does it count if his eyes look like they would stab Clementine ere they had the chance?

Just think of it as her being opportunistic, then it doesn't seem as bad. At any rate, all of this is deeply, deeply amusing to her on some level. Satisfied with the number of pleases that are placed into his request she shoves off the wall and meanders down the length of the stables without a word. Is she just ignoring him? That's pretty fucking rude. After a few stalls pass, she stops at one and pulls out a key, glancing back at Sammael. A frown, no. She moves onto another one and considers it. He could be feeling really lucky or extremely nervous, these last few have been total duds. Finally a decision is made and she unlocks the stall, leading out a sturdy bay gelding. He doesn't look fast but he should hold Sammael's weight and be surefooted enough. Dependable is a good word. "He comes back in one piece." Or insert vague but somehow surprisingly scary threat here.

If Sammael is worried, it doesn’t show. While she dithers at each stall, the bartender takes up his belligerent stance with his arms folded across his chest. The smile he gives her is definite bad-boy, tilted up and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sweetheart,” oh the irony heavily laced through the cadence of his accented words, “Do you think I’m going to halt on the side of the road and cut him up and eat him? I might be a former convict,” oh how he uses this to lash at the people around him, to prove that they all believe the same, “but I’m not holdless.” Sammael flicks his eyes across the horse’s stance and nods, “I’ll take him.” Yes, he’s reaching for the reins now.

"I don't care if you're an axe-murderer." Flippant. As if being an ex-convict was supposed to be impressive or make some mark on her, because it doesn't seem to. She's either extremely brave or very, very stupid. Maybe foolhardy would be a good description. "You run him into the ground so you can get there faster, I'll know." Clementine is going to know, okay. Somehow she's going to figure it out when she checks that animal over from head to toe upon his return. "You have to sign him out first. We don't just hand over expensive animals without some documentation." Presumably Sammael is going to be made to show off his driver's license now.

“I could be,” Sammael snaps his teeth wolfishly at the herder journeyman, though there’s real potential bite there — there always is with Sammael. “I know how to ride a runner,” his tone is patient, almost condescending, “and I know when to not ride them into the ground and when to take breaks.” His hand wraps around the leather reins - good luck getting him to let go now. “So feel free to check the animal over when you get him back. He won’t be getting whip lashes from me.” Documentation. It makes Sammael freeze into an unnatural stillness. “Documentation?” Breathed.

"Mmhm. I'm sure." Clementine still isn't impressed with the tough guy act. Maybe she's planning on hitting him in the head with a shit covered shovel if he acts out of line. Her hands too are wrapped around the reins, so they're in much the same position as they were at the stall door. "I'm glad you know all of that in your mind. But so far, all you've shown me is an extremely brash and demanding guy with zero fucks to give." At the unnatural stillness she narrows those bright blue eyes onto him, suspicion flickering. "Right. You need to write who you are, where you work in the weyr and wait all of ten to fifteen minutes for someone to fact check if you don't have a letter with a stamp from an assistant whatever." Seriously Southern, how is there no headman?

Something about Sammael relaxes that makes that stillness dissipate into a shrug. “Sure. I work at the Tipsy Kitten and if I crush your precious runner, you can talk to Bailey.” So casual does he drop the weyrwoman’s name, but it does come with a smile barbed enough to try and push the world away. “Since I kind of work for her and she knows exactly how to find me if I fuck up.” How’s that for credentials? “So if you show me where to write all this down,” he pantomimes writing, “then I can get out of your hair, as I’m sure you want.”

"I'm not going to go to one of the weyrwomen if you fuck up one of my runners. I'm going to personally find you." It's not a threat, it's promise. There won't be some third party interference between her and Sammael if something goes horribly wrong here. So he can hastily write off that tiny shred of protection he might have from the journeyman. But, in conclusion. There is some kind of desk with papers and pens near the entrance. The rain is letting up and apprentices abound. It's a simple enough procedure to fill out and send some scrub kid off to find a person in the know. And when it's over, Sammael will have his on-loan runner.

“You can try.” To Sammael, that’s a challenge and not one he’s all that particularly afraid of. Bailey isn’t a buffer to protect him, necessarily. When all of the paperwork is signed, the man takes the reins and tips a mock-salute towards the herder. Then, he steals his runner off into the drizzly rain, with that mysterious satchel slung over his shoulder. Maybe he really IS going to be stealing this runner. One never knows, because all too soon, the man and horse are gone. GONE, I say. GONE.

"Stupid dick bag." Who muttered that?

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