What does one do when there are empty barracks — cleaned, now, from a week's hard labor of scouring — and no hint of shine on either of the trio of weyr-golds to indicate a replenishing of assets to drive on the weyrlingmaster-staff's collective sleep deprivation status? Well, when you are K'ane, you lure one of your poor, impressionable (by-way of fists and bruising, that is) assistants into the domain of the guardlings and start pounding on them. Or letting them pound on you, in this case! K'ane is drenched from the swelter of summer's song: sweat, that is, even so early in the cursed season as it is. He's stripped to the waist, his myriad scars gleaming apart from sweat-slick skin, and seems to be taking a purely defensive stance for this particular bout.

Similarly stripped, scarred and slicked, said impressionable assistant T'ral is squared off against K'ane. And nevermind the older man's greater reach. Nor his two stone weight advantage. Nor his experience. The bluerider has two things going for him: Perspicacity and Speed. Spending the better part of a turn studying a man - and yes, K'ane, you were studied - makes you sensitive to currents. And that wily old badger is like as not shrewd enough himself to know all of that and so T'ral's thrown out everything he thinks he knows about K'ane as is simply watching the man. Looking for his opening, deciding, eventually to make one. He's more than patient enough to wait out K'ane until the man bellowed at him to get some balls and THAT would be his opening. "K'ane?" He makes a jab at K'ane's blocking arms, mostly to get the big man moving and when he does, if he does, snaking out a quick hooking motion when weight is shifting, widen that stance, tip that balance. It's obvious. Easily dodged.

Deft the forearm that flies up to meet the jab, slanting the blow away from his face; it's as reactive as anything, and K'ane's eyes don't leave from where they rest, standard, on the other man's dominant shoulder. It's a guard trick, to watch where a person will have to pivot to either punch or kick: the shoulder tells all, more than the eyes, more than the hands, more than the feet. "Yes, pansy-ass?" K'ane pleasantly returns, light on his feet as he taps back a bounced step and comes up strafing left with casual irregularity.

"Lily," T'ral corrects, K'ane on his assedness. There! T'ral moves in, guard up, to push that foot wide before K'ane settles weight on it as he strafes to T'ral's right. Unless he misses a guess, that'll lift K'ane's guard a bit for a blow to his ribs from T'ral's off hand. He takes the shot!

One thing about K'ane is — well. K'ane is the ox, hard like ox, head like ox, take hits like ox. In Soviet Southern, K'ane oxes YOU. Or T'ral, in this case, because he leans into the hit as soon as he sees it coming, trying to minimize impact by closing the gap between them: and he lifts his raised-guard to reach those big-ass hands of his for T'ral's throat. Did anyone mention he plays dirtier than Bitran pool?

And funny, it's the Ox that does all the work. Because of all that Ox-ness T'ral has to let K'ane do the work. The work of making openings. He only has those two things going for him… speed and perspicacity. OH. And one small other thing, he doesn't give a shit if he gets hurt. Afterwards, he will, but descended into the red haze, not a single lone solitary shit is given. Ox or otherwise. These sparring sessions haven't been so few and far between that K'ane should be unaware of this. In fact, going after T'ral's air supply is probably the best method to put him down. So long as there is breath, there is fight. So, it's not dirty pool, because T'ral never gives in. Ever. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." A forestalling hand goes up as T'ral falls back, pausing, chest bellows a pumpin'. "I really need to tell you something."

"Th' more you talk th' more I'm sure you've got tits under your shirt an' no cock in your pants," K'ane smarts, following T'ral with a heavily communicated punch from his dominant right hand: it's coming for your eye, T'ral, with the ponderous slowness of a charging shetland pony. Strange. K'ane's typically faster than that. Or is it a feint?

Who's feinting? That jibber jabber shit was totally a feint. Well, sorta. He really does need to talk. But THAT. The smarting off. The shift. From choke to punch. K'ane was easy to bait into mouthiness. T'ral moves around that punch aiming a pair of body blows at K'ane's exposed ox-y haunch. Punching the ox at his ox-i-est point isn't a winning strategy, but T'ral is outclassed and will take what he can get.

Fucker. T'ral scores a smart whap and K'ane makes a grunting noise in return, swinging around belatedly — foot first. That's heading at T'ral's head in a very unusual show of full-body retaliation; K'ane normally doesn't go for all of that MMA bullshit. But now. BUT NOW. Mid-kick: "What'd y'want to tell me?" swiftly half-gasped out.

A flare of predatory thrill at connecting with a good hit. There's surprise, yes. For that kick. Aimed at his head. T'ral is dodging down and away when his toe catches just so. He might have been able to recover, but the hesitation is enough that his arms don't come up fast enough and his body down and K'ane's roundhouse takes him right in the temple. T'ral's got no glass jaw and can take an alarming amount of punishment through sheer stubbornnnes. But a roundhouse like the kick of a mule? Well, it's K'ane so, like the kick of a jackass? T'ral blacks out. It's just a moment, a boneless moment where he spins away. He comes to still spinning. Disoriented. Panic stiffens his limbs and keeps him from spilling on his ass, but it's a close thing. A very close thing. "Fuck." T'ral hunkers, arms going up over his clobbered face. He stills.

Well SHIT. K'ane didn't mean for THAT to happen, and it's obvious that he tries to pull the kick as much as possible when T'ral goes all awkward-bodily-positioned and shit. "Fuck," he barks, because he's an eloquent man, aye? The big man brings his leg back to his body and down, far more gracefully than most people would ever imagine the weyrlingmaster could accomplish with his brawn, and crosses the space with a hand lifted, palm out, general appease. "Hey, shit man, you okay?"

"I…" T'ral staggers, blinking, a hand to his temple. "I remember…" he turns befuddled eyes on K'ane, focusing through the man, blinking, mouth agape. He shakes his head and straightens, brow furrowed, "K'ane…"

"You remember?" K'ane squints at T'ral, blankly. "Fuck what y' remember, man, are you okay?" He's already trying to peel fingers of T'ral's hand off his head, the better to get a look. Is there blood? Is there a goose-egg knot? DID HE BREAK T'RAL'S BRAIN-BONE?!

There's no blood. No real goose egg. All soft tissue stuff, like as not. T'ral staggers a bit and then tenses, coming up with a wicked uppercut. SUCKER. K'ane's fast enough, and close enough that he can probably avoid the worst of it, or even put T'ral on the floor via the hand he's peeled off the man's temple. Dirty pool? K'ane's taught him well. The the… uh… the concussion is for reals.

"Oh you MOTHERFUC…" K'ane leans into the punch, his favorite move, taking the blow to the high slope of his cheekbone — that's going to bruise — and transmuting his mass into a roaring, standstill-charged TACKLE, aimed low on T'ral's middle. If the man isn't fast enough, the bitch is going DOWN.

On the ground? With a roaring K'ane? There's a line of men- and womenfolk who might enjoy the privilege of K'ane breakin' their hips, but T'ral's not one of them. Sadly, as good as that sucker punch was, it was the better part of what he was capable of and the best he's hoping for now, with twenty stone of bronzerider (give or take) bearing down on him, is to get a foot or a knee up into K'ane's belly and shove, driving the man past him with his own momentum as they drive towards the ground. A guy can hope, right? Otherwise there'll be a nice smooth bluerider paste on the mats pretty soon. Spreadable. Good on a cracker.

Oh look. It works. What? Maybe T'ral's just having a great span of luck. K'ane is REALLY, REALLY INTO this tackle, guys. He drives every ounce of his anger and RAGE into it, and as such, it's probably a really, REALLY good thing that he rebounds off of T'ral's foot and lands with a painful-sounding THUMP crown-to-crown with the bluerider. He wheezes. Painfully.

Eighty-six the bluerider paste. K'ane's down and wheezing. Shit! It worked. T'ral's got all of a split second to capitalize on Fate's largesse. He scoots and spins, dizzy a moment and nauseous, head throbbing as he tries to keep a hold on K'ane's hand, then one that had been peeling T'ral's fingers from his skull. He's aiming for a scissor choke on K'ane's corded ox neck and an armbar to go with it. That MMA Bullshit? T'ral's ALL IN. If this goes badly, T'ral's in a world of hurt. But, shoot, you pays your money and you takes your chances, right? T'ral was bound to come out ahead once, right? Once? Smart money says 'Hell to the NO.' "You," grab, "Kicked me," shift, "In the head," grind, "ASSHOLE."

With a wrench of fingers that probably dislocates a joint or leaves skin in the process, K'ane frees his hand and scrambles away from T'ral with the ferocity of a caged animal escaping. Or maybe a man escaping a cage match. "ENOUGH," he roars at top voice, his hands brandished palm-up again. "ENOUGH." He's scrambling to his feet, blue eyes bright with anger.

T'ral rolls away over his shoulder and springs up, fists raised, en garde, eyes hot and hard, teeth bared, red haze of the fight fading with something that resembles reason chattering at him to stow his shit. Breath is coming in ragged pants. Head throbbing. He narrows eyes at K'ane and drops his hands, nodding, walking back a couple paces to step off of the mat. Out of bounds. "You," pant, "Alright?" T'ral blinks hard. His ears are ringing.

"Shut th' fuck up and sit th' fuck down you jughead." K'ane's voice is faintly disgusted. "Y'fuckin' beserker." Like K'ane's one to speak — not that he's really ever gone all out at T'ral, even when he gets mad. That's better left in Bitran dives where his victi… sparring partners can't track him back to his actual home and kill him in his SLEEP. "Sit th' fuck down, I'm getting you a Healer." Notably, he backs towards the door rather than just walks to it.

"Fuck off, I'm fine." For all that, T'ral does collapse onto a bench, legs spread, leaning onto his elbows. "I still remember math and my mother and shit." He K'ane off, a loose-limbed sweep of raw-scraped hand. He takes a deep breath and sits back, leaned against the wall, head lolling back to rest against the rough stone.

Uh huh. A healer does return, a sweep of violet-touched robes in the traditional garb, clucking a tsk-tsk as he crosses the floor towards the assistant weyrlingmaster seated on the bench. "Where was the impact?" he impersonally queries T'ral, settled on the balls of his feet in front of the bluerider, fingers hovering at either temple of the other man.

Well, examinations after a head trauma are not new to young T'ral. He's FINE, though. A biddable enough patient if only to move things along and out of respect that the Healer's just doing his job. "Here." He shows on the side where the brunt of impact came. Holding still, he looks around for K'ane. He really did need to talk to the man. Though… uh. Maybe now wasn't the best time. He'd looked pissed.

There's a series of tests for T'ral: all the standard things. Physical inspection. Following of fingers. Simple questions. If he passes them correctly, K'ane will be by the door, still cooling off, staring in with Impassive Cop Face firmly in place. WHAT. WHAT T'RAL.

"Esanth. T'ral." The bluerider's lips curl a bit, at the question asking after Esanth's name before his own. The protocol was different for non-riders. "Seventh day." A pause. "Twelth month." A barely checked sigh. "Southern Weyr. Assistant weyrlingmaster." Unless K'ane kills him. Or… well, he gets to talk to the man. "How mad is he?" T'ral's remembering the fight in fits and starts. He goes somewhere in fights. Probably inexperience? Or maybe he is a berserker, like K'ane says. His eyes flicker from the Healer's to the Weyrlingmaster and back to the Healer.

Oh, yeah. Fingers back and forth. That too.

No nystagmus.

"As mad as he ever is, I imagine," the Healer murmurs, his voice as disapproving as what he focused upon T'ral earlier. "You'll be fine. Don't go to sleep for the next six candlemarks, and if you start getting dizzy or feeling strange at all, you are to go directly to the Infirmary, you understand me?" The Healer's voice is firm, but soon enough those purple-gilded robes are leaving — off to see to the next harebrained, voluntarily-received headcase. Er. Head injury. Whatever. K'ane still Looms, but by now he's looking more concerned than mad. That's gotta be SOMETHING.

K'ane's a happy guy. Mostly. Except when he's not. Then he's very not. "Thank you, Sir." T'ral's successes in the bout feel flat. He leeeans over and drags his bag closer, fishing out a towel to wipe his face. K'ane can Loom all he wants Over There. T'ral's not gonna step into THAT trap before time. Probably the best licks he'd ever gotten in on K'ane. Ah, well. Fuck it. He gathers his things and heads towards K'ane. The door. They are coincident. He stops at the edge of K'ane's reach. In some ways T'ral is a smart man. "Healer says I'm fine." He keeps the 'like I said I was' out of the tone. In some ways, a VERY smart man. "I want to go back to the Wings," T'ral blurts. BAND-AID OFF. Fuck. Maybe something did rattle loose.

Oh look. K'ane tilts his head at the bluerider, gaze penetrating. "Not havin' weyrlings drivin' y' crazy?" It seems a reasonable question. Neutral-pitched. No leanings for or against, just a verbal inquiry for clarification. And that copface coming back, impassivity pervading his expression.

"Huh. No, not exactly," T'ral scratches at his beard. "But, yeah, I guess?" He sighs out a pent up breath, "I dunno." Wow. Come on down, folks. To the Sparring Room, Harper eloquence on display. One night only. An evening with T'ral. His face collapses and he leans on the other jamb of the door, opposite K'ane, hand to his forehead, rubbing. "I'm not in it for the right reasons, yanno? Like…" he stops, shrugging, arms falling to his sides. Train of thought derailed. Or maybe lost in brain trauma. "Why do you do it?"

"Fuck if I know." Come on, were you REALLY expecting the secret of life from K'ane, T'ral? It may be a long time coming. "I kept gettin' thrown into it, an' eventually you just decide t' do what y' do and be good at it." Big shoulders shrug. "T' be honest, I was a damned fool of a wingleader. I ain't good with," He gestures vaguely at T'ral. "Adults. I'm too likely t' put a fist through their face. But a baby, a baby I can be patient with." He owns his own shortcomings easily enough. "It ain't for everyone, though, an' I understand that. Ain't no shame in it if you'd rather go chasin' Thread. Ain't no shame if you want t' stay, either."

T'ral rolls his eyes in amiable displeasure. "There were a few I wanted to put my fist through. Both groups." But he nods, head slung low. He gets it. They're've been glimpses of the man K'ane might be in other circumstances and it's chilling, frankly. K'ane is definitely in the 'glad he's on our side' group. "I don't like carryin' that pit around. Wondering if I'm doing enough." He laughs, bleak, "I mean, they didn't DIE." He makes sad little party-favor whirlygigs with his fingers. "Yay." He crosses his arms across his chest. "Thread? Thread just wants to kill you dead. That's…" He laughs, rueful. "Comforting?" He blinks his eyes, shaking his head, with faintly amused and self-deprecating 'what the fuck is wrong with me?' vibe. All that in one word.

"Sometimes y'just gotta chase th' wind, T'ral. You're young yet. Go fight Thread for a while, see where th' wind takes you. I ain't got nothin' for you anyhow, not right now. Not with," K'ane's lips firm up, "Th' way things are lookin'. Dry barracks, dry for a while if I don't miss my guess." If things keep going the way they HAVE been going, K'ane will get probably end up drafted by Cha'el to do things he normally doesn't. Like fight Thread in earnest — always a scary proposition when it involves Dhioth.

The younger man nods, brow stitched. "Thanks for… making it easy." He rubs at his brow, "Apart from the concussion." T'ral catches some of that unease. Brow stitched. He'd been considering leaving the weyrlingstaff before there was a lull, but the LACK of eggs on the sands presented an opportunity that coincided uncomfortably with his plans. "When do you think …Khalyssrielth will go up?" Tuli's name, her transfer, unmentioned.

"It's a'ight, your head is hard enough t' take it," K'ane wryly returns. The weyrlingmaster goes quiet for a long moment, assessing the wall behind T'ral as if it has a story to tell, or the answers to unasked questions. "Doesn't look like it'll be soon," he finally replies, his voice far broodier than it should be. Not that he wants to bed that hoyden, or see Dhioth catch a gold smaller than him. (It's just not natural — not natural at ALL!)

Shit. T'ral would in a Bitran Minute. Bed that hoyden. But he doesn't ride a breeder. So. Not happening. Plus, a girl'd caught his fancy in recent sevens. Broodier, strange choice of words…. T'ral snorts. "We can hope right. Hey." T'ral clears his throat and straightens from his lean against the door jamb. "I won't leave you in a lurch. If you don't find anyone to replace me, next time you've got weyrlings, I'm your man." He looks off, wry grin skewing the smile on his face, "That's assuming I don't have to come slinkin' back tail between my legs 'cause we're so out of fighting trim." His brows tip up, "You heard Niyati got Serval's wingleadership?" Helluvathing.

K'ane knows better than most that bedding goldriders does not necessarily follow riding a stud. The only one he's REALLY got to his name is Lendai, and that was — well, she's Lendai, what do you really have to say more than that. And that one goldrider at Telgar but she doesn't count. "Sure thing, hoss. If I need y', trust me when I say I'll track y' down." His smile is fleet and amused. "Oh, yeah. I recommended her t' Cha'el — I didn't know he was gonna consider her for that, but. Aye. She's got a good head on her shoulders." K'ane's voice is fond.

When you're outta your league it does. K'ane. Bailey would chew T'ral up into little pieces and spit him out. And he'd LIKE it. "She does at that. And Kaiyth is solid." Also fond. Proud. "I don't think that'd work in any Wing but Serval." Serval was about mobility. Flexibility. "Not that she couldn't do it, but… you know." He waves at K'ane, dismissing the topic. He fixes the big man with a fond look of his own, eyes skipping to K'ane's cheek, "Sorry about that." He'd reviewed the red haze. Lips press flat and T'ral swallows, sticking his hand out, "Thanks."

There would certainly be teeth involved. "Kaiyth is as solid as a pane of wormwood," K'ane replies, his voice fond to keep away any negative connotations. SWISS CHEESE GREEN. "Eh, y'see things too much with a nowtimer perogative. Greenriders are th' shit. I had a greenriding wingleader for th' longest time, an' she'd whup your ass up one end and down th' other." The flash of wolfish smile indicates exactly what he feels about THAT. He shrugs at mention of his blackening eye. What can you do. After eyeballing the hand a minute, K'ane does a grab-and-pull move to bring T'ral in for a backslapping manly-man hug. "Any time, man," is his voice, gruff as is required for such a thing.

"Who do you think I am?" T'ral is affronted. "I meant Nowtimers wouldn't sit for it." But he's clearly not including himself. T'ral is ALL IN on Southern's radical inclusiveness. "A year. A YEAR we've worked together and you think I cotton to that crap?" He eyes K'ane up and down, "Maybe I caught you harder than I thought." He grins. Back thumping, three meaty thuds, no more. No less. "See you in the morning, hon." For PT. Because until he was reassigned, he was still K'ane's. Better wring this wiry bluerider out while ya can, K'ane.

"Uh huh. Listen, I know where you were born, an' when," K'ane dryly returns. "Just ain't th' same." His voice drifts faintly wistful for a moment: there's nothing like home, as they say, even though his technically disappeared before he turned sixteen. A long — long — time ago. "Nope. I ain't runnin' in the mornin'." His lopsided grin is TELLING. "I think I'm gonna stop shavin', too." He scruffs at his face with a pensive look, and then, LIKE THAT, turns and walks out, flagging a hand behind him in a wave. He apparently just received the Chaos Signal to go wreak havoc somewhere else.