Who

Merakh, Cha'el, W'rin, Terrian, Rhiex

What

Cha'el meets the first of the female guard recruits. It…doesn't go well.

When

It is before dawn of the sixteenth day of the second month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr, Guardhouse & Northern Bowl

OOC Date

 

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GUARDHOUSE

Ancient, half-crumbling, and more than a little pathetic: Igen Weyr's guardhouse is a weathered thing, one to which little enough love has been shown. Theoretically a two-story building, the staircase into the upper quarters has long since rotted away to collapse, and a creaky ladder leads up into what once were barracks, but now serve as storage for miscellaneous and half-forgotten equipment and assorted rubbish. The downstairs has faired little better: trestle tables serve as both crude desks and cruder staging areas, while the small administrative office reeks more of booze than paperwork. Only the brig is halfway well-maintained, though it's still a pathetic thing: cramped and unsanitary, with a single dingy cot and dusty latticed window.


Late afternoon, after one of the shift changes, and Merakh has the dubious pleasure of being assigned to the guardhouse to take complaints. It's a slow day, so her real mission for the day is to clean the room up as much as she can. It's no longer the sty it apparently was, but no woman would feel comfortable in the dingy, hard-won grandeur that's slowly emerging from beneath turns of dirt. That's why, at least, she's sweeping ferociously, tall form making quick work out of it. Yes, there are a few gawkers lingering at the entrance, but she's ignoring them stoically, only the lash-lash-lash of her braid creating the impression of a furious cat.

Is it because he’s heard rumors of women being hired as guard recruits? Or something else entirely that brings Igen’s Weyrsecond to the guardhouse this day? Who knows for in he marches with a purpose to his step, swishing right through the neat little pile of sand Merakh’s sweeping has created. And then he stops and casts about for someone in uniform….blink. The woman sweeping is wearing one. Froooown. Cue the stifled huff. “You,” Cha’el addresses her with a waggle of finger in the air, “the one with the broom. You know a kid called, Thierry?”

It's as she straightens and faces Cha'el that the other reason for the lingering looks is made clear: sleek muscles moving under her skin or not, the woman is definitely gorgeous despite the absolutely clear 'dangerous' body kinesics. The rider's tone is enough to make her hand tighten a little on the broom, but she wanders closer to answer without problems. "No, he's not here at the moment, he's out patrolling. If you wish to leave a message for him I can see to it that he gets it as soon as he's back." Her head tilts, just a fraction, and brows politely lift in an 'is that all'.

Sea-blue eyes widen a fraction and then narrow with honed in focus once the woman straightens. Dooown her frame Cha'el's gaze slides and then aaaaall the way up again. Mmm. Never seen a uniform that quite fits like that! "Patrolling, eh? Little shit," the Weyrsecond grumbles though he does so without any real heat. "Aye, you can tell him Cha'el was here with a new schedule for him." But is that all? Not quite. "So you're one of those female recruits then, eh?" Captain Obvious.

Merakh weathers the look like she weathered them from the others: stoic indifference. "I'll make sure that he gets the message," she notes diplomatically, unashamed of looking her fill in turn. "Cha'el, little shit, looking for him." Another pause, this one longer. "I'm one of the new recruits," she admits, brows arcing faintly. "Coincidentally, I just so happen to have boobs, so I'll have to accept your judgement of my gender as well." Snarky, this one, quite snarky. Her eyes flick to his shoulder, decoding the knot there, which causes a half-way rueful smile to lurk into being. "Your dragon?" she asks politely. "I hope he is well. We are all dependent on them to be well, just now."

“What!? Fuck no!” Cha’el growls. “He’s the little shit not me…ugh, forget it. I’ll hunt him down later.” Snarky? Oh he can do snarky except that snarky appears to amuse the big brownrider. “You got tits?” Cue the innocent blink. “Ha. Didn’t notice.” Shyeah right. “But if you’re not sure about your gender then maybe you need to visit the healers and get a second opinion.” Aheh. He’d offer but… “Sikorth.” A name is supplied when Merakh draws his brown into conversation, “is well and thanks you for your interest.” Somewhere in the bowl there’s a mottled lump of ‘rock’ that snorts for he’d said no such thing. “So what makes a woman decide that when she grows up she wants to lock misfits and drunks up in the brig?”

She's quite adept at reading sub-text, thanks, and /that/ offer of the Healers only made her eyebrows arch even higher. "I've been dealing with drunks and misfits since I grew up from a baby girl, Weyrsecond. Besides, to ignore an offer like that from a place that would make the offer in honour? How could I not come?" The broom gets put aside, and she moseys forward into easy speaking distance with him, motion feline and steps assured. There's no defence of her decision beyond that; it doesn't need one, really, does it? "Is there a specific reason yuo need him, or will another guard serve? I am certain I'll be able to assist."

“In honor?” Dark brows beetle upwards either in disbelief or it’s simply a point of employ he’s not aware of. Note to self: Keep an eye on guards being hired. Moving on, the prowling approach of Merakh is noted with a subtle shift of brawny frame, her words drawing a chuckle that’s almost husky at the edges from Cha’el. “I doubt it. Not unless you’re looking to get all hot and sweaty.” Deliberate innuendo infused into a topic that doesn’t necessarily merit it. But it amuses the brownrider to do so.

Merakh looks him up and down lazily once, twice, and a third time just because it's so yummy to do. The ribald crowd at the doorway whistle and hoot, but her expression doesn't sour; instead, a slow smile can be seen curling into motion, lazy and languid. "Best three matches out of five?" she offers indolently, one hand going to her hip. "You're pretty big, I'll give you that, but I've handled bigger." Her lips quirk, grin dual-toned as his comments were. "And enjoyed it. Lead the way, Weyrsecond."

“That’s what they all say,” Cha’el drawls through a smirk when Merakh appears keen to take him on. “And then they run for the hills when it comes down to brass knobs.” Aheh. A lift of chin and flexing of jaw before he adds with another slick of gaze over her rather shapely frame, “Not looking to beat up on a woman. S’not right.” Nowtimer sensibilities simply don’t allow for such things.

"Tut tut, Weyrsecond," Merakh mentions idly. "I'm a big girl, you know. I've long since graduated from bronze to iron." She's laughing at him, not that terribly deep down inside either, and blue-green eyes show it all. "But, if you think you can't handle having to defend yourself against a woman, then I guess the rumour of riders knowing enough to walk the talk is just that … talk. I'll make you a bet, shall I? As I said, best three falls out of five, and the loser has to by the other an ale." Pause. "I'll enjoy my ale too."

Sea-blue eyes roll expressively before Cha’el utters a snort. “I’m not scared of you, lady.” He tells her in a low growl and steps in just short of Merakh’s personal space. “I simply prefer not having to wrestle my women to the ground.” Smirk for the open innuendo. “But if you feel you have to prove something, then far be it from me to deny you the opportunity. And I don’t drink ale so I hope you have the marks for rum.” That said, the big brownrider turns and shouldering his way passed those onlookers lingering in the doorway, walks out, simply expecting the female guard recruit to follow.

But it's when you wrestle that it gets really fun, Cha'el, didn't you know that? Merakh doesn't voice the words lingering in the air, but the rowdies at the entrance certainly pick up on that, and their whistling increases in pitch and frenetic intent. The guard wanders idly after the tall, muscled rider, humming gently underneath her breath. "I suggest the northern part of the bowl," comes an idle suggestion minutes later, and she starts to swerve that way. "The sand will provide impact, but is still soft enough if you really fall hard." And fall hard he will, if she has any say in it.

There’s wrestling and then there’s wrestling. One Cha’el is most definitely ALL for. The other goes against everything he stands for. A grunt is all that greets Merakh’s suggestion of location and the reasons thereof. “Hope you like sand in your britches,” the brownrider tosses back and with features cast about a frown makes his way through the throngs of the bazaar and out toward the northern bowl. Because HE wants to go there, and not because she suggested it, okay?

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NORTHERN BOWL
//In the quieter spaces of the Northern Bowl, there is less activity; all is kept serene for young, forming draconic bonds. Beneath the sweep of skies' ever-changing colors, this round little panorama hosts the short distances between the Hatching Cavern and the weyrlings' ultimate destination: the barracks and training grounds. More packed dirt and tiny little hillocks than clean white sand, the floor is an uneven thing, a startling trap for the unwary and the clumsy. Further onward, the Ground Weyrs beckon, a haven for those who may seek medical attention. //

Merakh wanders at his side, keeping her expression absolutely straight, and says nothing more as she makes her way towards the Northern Bowl. Once there, in a sandy, tucked-away little corner she looks around, waits for his approval and loosens the ties of her jacket without comment as she toes off her boots. The pants she can fight in if she has to, but having her shoulders restricted is another thing entirely. She strips it off, revealing a sleeveless, simple tunic beneath it, sleeveless and modest enough — if one's not a nowtimer. "Alright," she says after stretching her arms lazily, giving a quick up-and-down hop to test her footing. "Ready."

Tossing a perplexed look Marekhs’ way as she begins to strip away unnecessary clothing, the brownrider follows suit. Boots, socks, jacket, scarf and sweater are set into a neat pile leaving him wearing just a black sleeveless vest that clings to his upper torso like a second skin. But then, instead of doing the stretching, hopping about thing, Cha’el simply folds thickly muscled arms across his broad chest and eyes the female recruit. “No.” Pause. “I’m not gonna fight you. I just brought you out here so you could save face with that lot back there. If you want you can say you kicked my ass and we’ll go for a drink.”

The move isn't flashy, isn't even technically difficult. It requires speed though, which she builds with long legs and a burst from the powerful muscles in them. Before there's chance to do much more than cross his arms, she's braced her shin against his thigh, used the resulting force to swing her other leg over his shoulder. The very surprise of it works against all that muscle he has, and when she crunches her stomach forward and /rolls/ down, his tall torso is forced to come with — not a matter of strength, but lowered weight and momentum. The pin ends up with the two of them on the ground, his arms and neck between strong thighs, and she squeezes down. "I'd love a drink," she says idly as she arches to put pressure on. "Rum will be fine, thank you."

Cha’el is indeed blindsided. Up on his feet one moment trying his best to dissuade the woman from purpose and then next he’s going down and hitting the ground with a heavy grunt. Foul!! But other than a heavy curse, he does nothing, merely lies there fuming silently. “I think your idea of going down,” crude innuendo tossed in there, “and mine,” each breath is carefully measured by the volume of expansion her grip allows for, “is different. You might wanna try,” another careful breath, “working on your flirting.”

Merekh mhms at that. "Are we flirting? You should have said, I'd have batted my eyelashes more." The leg tightens a little more, then another fraction of an inch; her hands, whilst not as big as his are strong enough to keep his wrists and arms locked. "But then I guess it's understandable, a handsome man like you." There's another press inward, and then she's off, rolling into a crouch some distance away so that she can see him. She's certainly close enough to see the faint nicks and scars that mark her skin with thin white threads here and there, from likely knife-work over her hands and knuckles to a longer slice up the outside of one arm.

“Fuck you.” Cha’el wheeze-growls and squints a furious look upwards. Even once Merakh finally releases him and rolls away, he lies there flat on his back for a few moments, schooling his breathing back into a normal pattern. With a clench of taut abdominal muscles he rolls up into a sitting position and eyes the woman, the scars that dapple her skin silently taken note of. “What’s your problem?” Eventually is aimed at her in a stiff tone as he pushes up to his feet. “Your daddy not love you enough?” Yeah, it’s a low blow but hey, he nearly got his head squished by her thighs and NOT in a way he might have liked.

Merakh's gaze goes flat with rage, though there's no outward sign of it but that and a delicate, almost pretty flaring of nostrils. "My daddy loved me very much," she manages to get out in a hoarse, breathy voice, deepened by anger to a low alto register. "He also died whilst I was still quite young, so you're barking up the wrong tree there, Weyrsecond. I have no problem…" Pause. Swallow thar spitting vitriol down, Merakh. Deep, deep down. "I have no…" It's really not working. "My apologies for interrupting your day." With one smooth movement she shoots to her feet to face him, giving a jerky kind of bow. "I will convey your message to Thierry." Come closer, come /one/ step closer, and the spring coiling in her belly will snap.

With little to no emotion at play across bearded features, save for the faintest glint in blue eyes, Cha’el listens impassively. Only once Merakh is done and he’s allowed for a few moments to pass, does he then speak. “Welcome to the club of the fatherless whelps,” the brownrider starts out, his baritone free of telling sentiment. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” there’s a pause in which he boldly takes a step forward and extends a hand in greeting, “Hi, my name is Cha’el, rider to brown Sikorth, formerly of Ista.” Er what?

Pause. Sigh. Siiigh. "Hello," she says, voice still deep with irritation. she eyes his hand suspiciously, then reaches out to slip hers into it. "Merakh, rider of no particular dragon," she murmurs, half-practical, half-amused. "Otherwise I might have had better manners." When she steps close this time, it's not to attack: she looks around first before reaching to tilt his chin up with her fingertips, others trailing over the line of his Adam's apple. "Can you swallow fine?" she asks, low, frowning. "I might have been a little irritated by those idiots before. I should hate to think I damaged you."

Only once Merakh has taken his hand in greeting does Cha’el allow a smirk to slip free, his closing about hers perhaps a little tighter than is necessary? Dropped the moment she steps in closer and starts touching him. Stiffening in the manner of a predator unused to being petted by a stranger, the brownrider eyes her closely but allows the touching for the briefest of moments before he snaps a hand upward and wraps his fingers about her wrist, staying any further trailing of said fingers. “Its gonna take a lot more than a bit of thigh action to put me out, sweetheart,” less endearment and more patronizing. Aaand there’s that smile, slow and taunting. “Do you feel better now?”

With her hand captured, there's little choice but to stand there and admire the smile up close, Merakh manifests one of her own. "I'll remember that, should I ever feel the desire to practice my, ah, thigh action on anyone, but I have to say that you seemed to go down willingly enough!" Teasing, a little raunchy, definitely piqued, the anger in her gaze gentles to something else. "I feel better, yes, but I feel that I owe you that rum indeed. Whether you trust female guards or not, I feel I should do something to make up for the rudeness done today."

“Told you. I’m not gonna fight you.” Cha’el returns with a sliver of amusement for the raunchy insinuation slid into her comment. And then he falls to silence, hand still wrapped Merakh’s wrist and features a study in contemplation. “Look, I get women on fighting dragons. It’s the dragon’s choice and if they didn’t fit the dragon wouldn’t choose them. But this,” blue eyes try to drop down the length of what was a uniform but instead become stuck at cleavage from his vantage point of height – ahem -, “Just isn’t work a woman should be doing. So it has little to do with trust and everything to do with…” a woman knowing her place? “Safety.” Is the word the brownrider settles on. And as for rum. “Now that I’ll take you up on.”

Merakh ignores the tingling of delicate skin from where her wrist is gripped. "I am not your project, Weyrsecond," she says quietly but respectfully. "My place is where I find myself right now, and I appreciate the thought of worry for my safety, but neither my safety nor that of the Weyr will be harmed by this move. I suggest you give me a Turn or so at least before reviewing my performance." The captured hand twists, rests fingers against his arm. "Will you give so much to any woman, to protect your back down here? I am, after all, trusting you to protect my back up there." Her lips twitch. "Rum. On me." Not literally, understand.

The moment Merakh’s hand twists, the brownrider releases it and takes a step back as if burned a frown scowling his brows together. “I’ve never needed a woman to watch my back and that’s not about to change just because a few are putting on guard’s uniforms and wrapping their thighs around men’s necks.” That…didn’t come out right. Whatever. “Tell you what. You do what you do and I’ll do what I do and we’ll call it even over rum.”

There's a whispered rill of irritation again, a sere whisper that breathes out, perfuming the air between them. "I didn't put on the uniform for that kind of business, sir, so please don't suggest it again." There's fire in the cookie, even if well-tempered by age. "Rum it is. After my duty shift?"

Cha’el, not realizing how what he’d said might be construed, blinks in bewilderment at Merakh. “Wait. What kind of business now?” The rum date set aside until he’s figured this out.

Merakh turns aside to gather her things: the guard jacket is folded over her arms, and she slips socks and boots on again. "If I had wanted a job as a whore spreading my legs for anyone with the power to make my life uncomfortable, I'd've certainly applied for such a job. Mock the move all you want, sir, but I won't settle for half-respect just because you've a bias against my sex." The jacket is shrugged on easily, she turns the light sleeveless tunic beneath it down and tucks it into her pants. No huffy leavetaking, no angry shouting, just a level stare, no matter how much she might want to rearrange his pretty face for him.

The Northern Bowl? W'rin lives off that bowl, and so it is into this little mess that the massive weyrleader stumbles. Pulling up next to his weyrsecond in immediate solidarity, he eyes the woman's little speech before scratching at his beard in confusion and turning to look at the brownrider beside him. "She just call you a sexist?" There is a feeble attempt to keep the laughter from his voice, but behold, the Igen leader is tickled.

Blink. Blinkety-blink-blink. Cha’el is floored and it shows in the dumbfounded set of bearded features. With dust all up and down his back and ass, instead of putting his sweater back on, he whips the dusty close-fitting tank top off and shoves it in a pocket. Sort of as half of it trails out to hang down the side of his thigh. Then the sweater is reached for. “You’re squirly, woman! I never called you a whore. As for your sex,” he’s starting to get going now the next words muffled as he yanks down his sweater over his head. “You all can do what the fuck you like. Save for fighting in the ring and…” apparently being a guard, “and that.” Her uniform indicated. “Its not right.” Oh hey, W’rin. Bro solidarity. “Woman’s cracked in the head,” the Weyrsecond mutters. “Wrapping her thighs around my face and then saying I’m calling her a whore.”

"And isn't it funny that by doing that, I had you down on the ground and incapacitated in about four seconds flat," Merakh drawls lazily as she does up her jacket. "Fair's fair, sir, think what you want, but if you're the kind of man to go weak and vulnerable having thighs around your head…" The thought trails off, the fish-hook easy to see, and she calmly turned her glance to the Weyrleader. "Sir," she says with a nod. "I thought it would be better than slugging him until he apologised for the remark. Fact is, I know what I'm here for, and I'm doing it, whether anyone approves of it or not." Pause, and a sideways flick. "Anyone."

"Oh, that's not whoring, Cha'el. Whores work out the details of money first. No money, well then she's just loose. A shame really. Might as well get paid for it." But W'rin is slowly catching on to the idea of the woman being one of those new guards Sadaiya was all worked up about. "You're a guard, woman?" His arms slowly moving to cross awkwardly across his puffed chest. "You're a guard! How dare you attack one of my riders." The weyrleader did hear that correctly, didn't he? It doesn't matter now. He's fuming. "You will, recruit, stay the fuck away from my riders. You will not under any circumstances hit ANYONE for remarks, and most especially not a rider. You incapacitate one of my riders during a pass, and you'll find yourself defense in the desert! DO YOU fucking UNDERSTAND?" The man's growing volcanic rage as been pent up for some time, but he's making exceptionally clear she has no jurisdiction over riders.

Cha’el glowers but directs his reply at W’rin, hooking a thumb in Merakh’s direction. “Only because she fights dirty and I said I wasn’t going to fight her. Not right to hit a woman.” And then it all goes completely arse about face. That glower becomes a tightly narrowed glare. Thin ice, lady. Thiiiin ice. But he keeps his internal commentary about lippy woman to himself for the time being. Slowly but surely a smirk starts to peel into place when W’rin launches into Modus Outrage. He might have felt bad for the female guard if she hadn’t just accused him of something he hadn’t intended to imply.

Oh don't mind Terrian. Someone has given him a two month old female canine and he is out and about walking it. The silly creature is off her leash and bounding to sniff every object she comes across. This includes, much to the laid-back recruit's discomfort, the knot of people who seem to be yelling. The pup trots right up to the angry W'rin and barks once. "Oy, Sorry sir," Terrian trots up to kneel by the puppy, quickly tying a strink to her neck. "Did not mean to be interuptin'." Nope, he didn't hear anything.

Again there's an eyeflick; most of the diatribe she spends staring at Cha'el — he knows the facts of what started this as well as she does. Whether the Weyrleader has his facts back-assward or not, Merakh doesn't say much about it. "I take your meaning perfectly, sir," she says quite calmly. "I'm not to hit any of your riders, or anyone for remarks. May I take my leave? I still have to finish my shift, and given the place's looks, there's still some work to be done to the guardhouse."

W'rin's eyes narrow carefully at the girl as he studies her, her calm reaction drawing, rather than more rage, the tug of the slightest grin from beneath his hairy cheeks. "Aye. Not for remarks, woman." Because of course he still hasn't bothered to learn her name, Goldie territory and what not, "You want to gain the respect of people, 'busing your power won't get you far. But if they deserve it…at least make it look like it was by the books." A single snort of laughter, before he's stony again, "But the riders are disciplined by me. You have any problem with one of mine…" He jabs a finger toward Cha'el, though clearly he doesn't believe the man to be a rabble raiser, "You have your boss come to me. An if he don', well then. You come to me yourself. But dunno go lockin' your thighs around their faces with your cootch that close you'll either kill 'em with violence, or they'll just have a heartattack. And I can't be loosin' any more riders. Aye?" And with that he uncrosses his arms and nods his head in way of dissmisal.

Cha’el doesn’t flinch from that look coming from Merakh and meets it head on. He’d explained things in the way he understood them to be. So either he’s dim or he has cunningly selective understanding. Or, and probably more accurate, he’s just a guy and totally missed the part where innuendo painted the female guard a whore. “No problem, sir,” he eventually turns to W’rin, his mind galloping as he tries to arrange the disarray of what had gone down. “She wanted to fight or spar or something to win a round of drinks. I made like I was down for it and brought her out here so’s she wouldn’t lose face with the lot back at the guardhouse. But she didn’t want none of that. I mighta said something about her father,” heh, “but then I figured we were all good but now…” a hand lifts and the brownrider scratches at the back of his head honestly confused. “I dunno. I jus’ said women in the guard wasn’t right.” Or something like that. The pup when it comes frolicking up is given a brief slant eyes before attention sifts to its owner, a male guard going by the uniform. Back to the situation. “Far as I knew, we were going for drinks.” Baffled. The man is BAFFLED!!

Terrian blinks, keeping his face down as the weyrleader rages- thankfully, not at him. The string is tied on the neck of the dog, but he stays down there giving the creature some much deserved love while pretending he isn't in the room. One glance is cast towards that newest guard recruit, though he keeps his mouth shut about any opinions he has on the matter. How long can he stay here totally ignored by those-in-charge?

Merakh stands there stolidly, letting recriminations and comments alike flow over her. As W'rin finishes, she tucks the last bits of her shirt in, makes sure all is neat. "I'll have the guard-captain deliver the complaint then, sir. I trust that will clear up the Weyrsecond's memory. Good day." With that, she turns on her heel to make her way back to the guardhouse, back straight.

Rhiex is a familiar face around these parts — even more familiar to those who often frequent the depths of the old weyr, for a reason that most can't-quite-seem-to-place. He has a canine heeled by his side as well — a bit older than Terrian's pup, an alert and massive silver-sable animal who takes everything in with a wary flicker of ears. "Recruit," the guardsman barks toneless at Terrian, throwing a salute in-transit to Cha'el and W'rin as he passes, moving towards the exit. Drive-by Rhiex cameo GO.

The woman gone, W'rin turns to Cha'el with a grunt, "You're welcome to your opinions, bronzerider." Oh his first official dress down. "But as weyrsecond they stay addressed to me and the goldriders. Aye? As a weyr we function as one, at least on the face of it, to the masses." Read 'peasants'? "No rips in our garments. You got an issue with vags in the guard house you'd best bring them to me and Sadaiya. I'd be happy to rip on 'em in private over some whiskey..but they 'ought never know. Eh?" His voice barely above a whispered growl, as he glances back over his shoulder. As for Terrian, it looks like he might get away with being completely missed, if it weren't for the weyrleader half tripping over his dog as he spins on his heels to leave, "Fuckin' DOG!" Anger kept carefully in control at his weyrsecond unleashed in all its fury at the poor mongrel at his feet. "Bloody fucking weyr…" Is mumbled as he stomps off toward the inner caverns.

Happy puppy excitement turns to sad puppy sadness as the weyrleader almost squishes the small creature upon turning around. The yelp the creature lets out at her near-death experience is more than a little pathetic. Terrian reaches out to gather the pup closer as his eyes follow the weyrleader on his way out, as well as that older guard he hasn't had a chance to talk to much yet. Then there were two. One last reassuring pat happens to the head of the little puppy (who has quite gotten over the squishing already and is sniffing at Cha'el's shoes) before Terrian is rising to his feet to nod respectfully at the weyrsecond. "Sir."

A deep frown lines the Weyrsecond’s brow for not only getting dressed down for something he didn’t do (not that he’s been able to parse yet) but also for being so in front of others. But he says nothing, merely takes it on the chin with a stiff nod of head and a terse, “Sir.” Waiting until W’rin has gone and drop-kicked the puppy (see how quickly things get confused?) the brawny brownrider snatches up his jacket, scoops up sock stuffed boots yanking them from sweet puppy snufflings and stalks off. In the OPPOSITE direction. See this is why women shouldn’t be allowed to do a man’s job!! They’re too emotional! And BAFFLING!! Nothing good is going to come of this female guard thing, Goldies. NOTHING GOOD!!

Rhiex thinks all these men afraid of guardswomen just need to get off the rag and take some Midol. Faranth, people, it's not the end of the world.

Cha'el will talk to Rhiex once a woman puts him on his arse for trying to be a gentleman like his mama taught him.

Rhiex will buy him a glass of wine and some fine chocolates to soothe away that heartache.

And then there was one. Terrian exchanges a look with the puppy, who wags her tail happily behind him. "I'm thinkin' mayhap Thread ain't so scary. Them things they said 'bout Igen are more than true." The former caravan-guard shakes his head before stuffing the not string-holding hand back into his pocket. "Guess it makes life interestin' aye? Lets go."

Cha'el will get drunk at Rhiex's expense and swearing off women for life, make him his cuddle bunny.

Rhiex O__O

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