Sa'mael, R'ik


R'ik isn't where he's supposed to be and Sa'mael thinks he's where he deserves to be.

Some language


It is midmorning of the twenty-second day of the fifth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Barrier Hold, Stables

OOC Date 15 Mar 2016 22:00


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"I think I have to clean this mess up myself."



Protective stone hangs overhead, curving around the nestled clusters of stone stalls. Thick heaps of straw help ward off the chills that linger whenever the doors on either, opposing ends are opened to the bitter Southern cold. Masses of glows keep the room from feeling the weight of the stone from taking on the oppressive feel of being buried alive, and make this an almost cheerful place to be. Whatever the time of day, the air is filled with the redolent smell of sweet hay and leather, runner-sweat and manure, mingled with the wickering of runners and the stamp of heavy hooves.

It is cold enough to freeze a man's balls at the Hold, which is probably why Sa'mael is lingering in the stables. The way he closes one of the stall doors that house the runners suggests either he is coming or thought about leaving on runnerback. Either way, the man is here in this moment, dusting his hands free of lingering stable dust or grime and probably heading back out towards the Courtyard and beyond. The Stables is not a lingering place, but a place of transience. He does pause and pull the flask out from his back pocket to tip to his lips. His stance is neutral - neither latent with rage other than the normal churn that burns beneath the skin nor is he particularly jovial. His existence is pared down to a moment and collection of steps, burned into belligerence and defiance. The day closes towards noon, but is still morning enough to have that morning feel to it. The skies are grey and laden with clouds just ready to dump more snow on the beleaguered Hold.

Given the effect such frigid cold can have on R'ik's lungs if he exerts himself too heavily in it, one has to wonder what could possibly have drawn him up to the coldest place on the Southern continent. "BRAM!!" His is a bellow that cares little for the gentle ears of runners and barn life. "You can run you little fucker but you can't hide. I know you're in here." Moments later the bronzerider rounds the corner and almost walks slap-bang into the exiting Sa'mael. He jolts to a halt, blinks and then utters what is likely a grunt of amusement. "Tell me you already strung the little bastard up by his hairless balls."

"Whut?" Sa'mael's eyebrows shoot up when he's nearly bowled over by R'ik rambling on about stringing some poor bastard up by his balls. There would be a 'lol' there if such terminology existed on Pern. "No one in here but me," he jerks a thumb behind him, "And the stable guy that's tending to the runner some crafter dropped off a few moments ago." Folding his arms across his chest, he smirks and huffs out a sound like a laugh. A darkness edges it and rides the coldfire light of his eyes. "Who are you chasing?"

"Buggerit." R'ik grumbles. "You sure? He's pretty good at making like a hay bale." Leaning to one side, he squints passed his friend and into the relative gloom of the stables. "Bram." He says of who he's looking for. The same delinquent that Sam had hauled back from the north by the ear for him and dumped on Johannes' doorstep. "Was wanting to speak to Renalde about giving the kid a job in the kitchens fetching and carrying until I can find something more solid for him. He disappeared on me when I went to take a leak." Straightening, he puts the man before him under closer observation perhaps trying to divine the current level of the darkness riding his eyes. "What you doing up here?"

"That kid is nothing but bad news," Sa'mael intones, tone hard, "I hauled his ass out of a gaming hell and he was nowhere near ready to come until I told him I'd cut his balls off and hang them from my dragon like a pair of fuzzy dragon dice." It's said in much the same way he told the kid: deadpan and with a certain iron cast that indicates he's not really bluffing. "Lost cause, that boy, but he'd better have squealed." Warning lies in that statement promising dark times for skinny Bram if the kid didn't tell Johannes exactly what he was supposed to. "Finding me a pretty skirt to tumble," the slight-edged smile speaks of the cut of straight razors and promise. "Needed a change of scenery before I do something stupid." Which is honestly probably the real reason - though tumbling a pretty girl is also likely on his list of things To Do.

Clearly, these are details Bram had 'forgotten' to mention when R'ik had met with him after his meeting with Johannes. Shown in the way a thick scowl edges his features. But wait, isn't the Hold considered a No-fly zone for this particular bronzerider. Shhhh. He's not really here. Ahem. "I'm gonna brain him." R'ik growls. "And then I'm gonna tie him to a table in the kitchens and make him sleep under it for a seven." Probably not but he feels better for saying it. "Sorry, brother. I really thought he was straightened out this time." Which must go to a pattern with this particular miscreant. However, R'ik doesn't seem about to give up on him just yet. "Just gotta find that thing," the one that most people have, "to screw his head on right." A sharp gesture of hand waves off the frustration often associated with what he's trying to do with the handful of wayward youth he's targeted. Lips start to tilt about a sly smirk at talk of tumbling pretty skirts but fall into a straight line and draw a pensive expression into place. "What kinda stupid we talking here?" Concern is evident in the low rasp of his tone and the penetrating look he fixes his closest friend with.

Sa'mael shakes his head, his general feelings that these kids aren't worth the time and effort already been aired when R'ik started his humanities venture. However, he can appreciate the importance of it to his friend and so he keeps his lips mostly shut. Until the little assholes cause problems. "The kind that might end with me punching someone in the head," brutal honesty delivered with a barbed half-smile that does nothing to chill the coldfire heat of blue eyes. "Had Myziri all on my ass the other sevenday, and I swear. I wanted to punch her in the fucking face, but I think she was on something. And I don't want the drama that'd come from indulging in my baser desires because some chit wants to cut her baby teeth on me with her half-assed mockery." It is there, this coldfire rage, boiling beneath the surface and lingering in the tension of his stance.

Its one of those things that they likely agree to disagree on though R'ik appreciates where Sam's concern stems from. Shifting his stance, feet planting hip distance apart, he tugs his beanie down closer over his ears and then folds his arms across his chest. Pale eyes harden a touch, features taking on a slightly grim cast and then he sighs and shakes his head. "I swear that girl's got a thing for ignoring open doors and trying to go through the fucking wall instead." His way of saying: Bloody-minded. "What was she going on about?"

"I don't even know. It's like the girl deliberately tries to piss me off," Sa'mael shrugs, "But I'm sick of it. I'm sick of having to hold onto my shit when all I get is shit thrown at me. Myziri doesn't want to really piss me off, she doesn't, but you can't tell her that. She's in this safe bubble where nothing really bad happens and she must get off rolling around pissing people off - I don't know, R'ik. I'm at my end and someone's going to get hurt. Really hurt, because I'm done caring about jack shit." Resolution rides the fires behind his eyes and it is here that something has shifted. Changed. "Every time I think I could, I get shit like that in my face. I don't need that. I don't need Ione and her shit either telling me I'm no one. Fine. I'm no one. People wanna tell me that, remind me of that, then so be it." It is a jackal's smile that curves his lips, a breaking that leaves no bones behind. "If this be sin, then let sin be served."

Closer and closer together R'ik's eyebrows squeeze until all that separates them is a ridged piece of skin with a deep groove in it. Its not just what Sa'mael is saying but the way he's saying it and the hint of something subtle having shifted in him. Anger, the quiet, deeply protective kind begins to limn the raven-haired bronzerider's frame and tighten the line of his black bristled jaw. He's quiet for a while as he takes it all in then he takes it apart and lays it out on the bench of his mind in order to assess the required level of damage control. Eventually, lips part to exhale a long breath that clouds the chilly air with the heat of his lungs. "First off, you ain't nothing. You're kin. My kin." In case Sa'mael has forgotten that even when all others have forsaken him, he'll still have R'ik in his corner. "My chosen kin." Which counts more than blood-kin in R'ik's estimation. "Second, a dragon don't bond with a nothing and your Czhaevth ain't dumb. I've watched you fighting Thread." And nearly got clipped on the shoulder as a result. "There ain't nothing like the pair of you up there. So don't you be shoving your head up your arse," spoken with heartfelt intent. "You are needed. We need you," he and Hrykeluth as their wingman in the fight against the ancient enemy. "Jaguar needs you. This fucking Weyr…needs you."

"I'm tired of women." Sa'mael unfolds one arm enough to rub at the connection point of his jaw, fingers digging into the meat of the muscle that aches from the constant clench he's held to. "I'm not angry anymore," which may or may not be the truth, "It's my own fault for getting myself into these situations. I let them… bitch at me." He sighs and covers his lower jaw with his hand - a graveyard grin for R'ik's loyalty - and looks down at the ground, biting his bottom lip enough that the flesh tilts inward as bristles stand up and on end. "I know my strengths," beyond the rage brought on by the words, there's something else lying beneath it. Indefinable, but as uncomfortable as a present darkness. "I'm not questioning my worth. They can all go fuck themselves, but I'm not going to be so nice anymore, cause I really don't fucking care now." He takes a step closer and grips his friend's shoulder, something burning bright in the feverish wrath held in his eyes. That something leads to a few muttered words, the intensity of his eyes alone getting R'ik to understand.

Sa'mael talks and R'ik listens without interjection. Only those pale eyes of his flick back and forth, reading sign of things left unsaid, tracing invisible lines that lead to the deep wells of cold rage spawned by the fires of hell itself that animate his friend. Not for nothing are these two friends with an almost unbreakable bond. Not for nothing were they drawn to each other in the dark days of their incarceration. At the firm press of strong fingers over the curve of his shoulder, R'ik's arms unfold. A sharp look snaps to wrath brightened blue eyes, lips part and then clash together again, pressed about a thin line. But its not anger held in that moment in his expression. Its something else. Its compassion stitched together by understanding. "Fuck." Quiet. He lifts a hand and curls his fingers about the nape of Sa'mael's neck. With a light jerk he draws him closer so that their foreheads briefly touch. Something is muttered in return and then R'ik releases him.

Sa'mael sighs and for once in his life, there is something akin to ownership in the countenance that still holds all that ire. "I would, but." He rubs the corners of his eyes with calloused fingers, "I think I have to clean this mess up myself." Maybe he is growing up - hah. Time will only tell on that. Still, R'ik's words automatically get his arm slung around the other man's shoulders. "At least…" Knowing his friend has his back is probably what prompts this. He mutters something under his breath, brought with the draw of brows. "I think it's best if Czhaevth and I just… concentrate on doing what we do best." Fighting Thread.

Sage eyes hold to blue and while its not a situation that encourages humour of any kind, there is a small lift to the one side of R'ik's mouth. Perhaps its approval? Pride? Or maybe its something else entirely. "Yeah. I know. Just don't throw the egg out with the flit still in it, yeah?" A wry smile slips free then subsides again, a light punch, more a knock of fist landing against Sa'mael's ribs on the side not pulled in against R'ik. A sideways flick of eyes, a purse of lips and then a quiet sigh before the darker haired of the pair nods and mutters a reply.

"Fuck that, man." Sa'mael laughs and returns the light punch with one of his own, some kind of answer given in response. "Now, let's go see if we can drink our asses off and get warm in this Faranth forsaken place. I ain't done yet." Because it's cold as balls and he's done talking about his shit for now. Only there's a slight hesitation, as if there's potential to say more hovering in the spaces between moments, but he shakes his head. The moment's passed and he's onward and forward. "See? It's punishment my dumbass dragon dropped my ass off down here for." The bronzerider laughs, intent on dragging his friend along with him.

"Ha!" The sound busts from R'ik in a cloud of fog. "I'm not here, remember?" Shyeah right. Like his stomping around bellowing for Bram didn't already let that feline out of the bag. Not to mention that he hopes to hunt down the Lord Warder at some point. "Fine. I'll let you buy me a brandy."What? R'ik volunteering to put booze down his throat? It must be cold! As he and Sa'mael head across the courtyard toward the great double doors that lead to warmth, both free men in a place that had once held them in chains, he has one more low spoken comment to make.

To whatever R'ik says, Sa'mael just grunts. Maybe he's tired of hearing his own words turned back on him, but for now, all that shit's rolling off his back. Onto better things, my friend, better things!

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