Who

Thierry, Prymelia

What

Coming across Thierry holding his very own pity party for one, Prymelia lights a fire under his arse.

When

It is midmorning of the sixteenth day of the fifth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr, Standing stones

OOC Date

 

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Standing Stones

It is perhaps a pity that the Standing Stones lie in quiet isolation, half-forgotten in the Weyr's easternmost corner. Or perhaps it is inevitable: the grandiose beauty of these red rocks is ill-suited to Igen's coarse grit, and maybe only their loneliness allows them to survive unmarred. Whatever the reason, it cannot be denied that the Standing Stones, a lonely jumble of ancient boulders, have a glory about them. The tumbled field of pillars and arches has been shaped by eons of wind and water into strange shapes, twisted and rutted. The going is treacherous: only the Weyr's half-feral herd of caprines navigates the terrain with any ease. To the northwest, the lakeshore glimmers; to the east, rough-carved steps lead towards another ancient pile of rocks - though the Star Stones are less haphazardly placed than their Standing cousins.


It's just past breakfast, and candidates have been assigned their chores - or free time, if they're lucky. Thierry is in the lucky category, with time to kill until the afternoon's assignments begin. He's taken the opportunity to squeeze in a little extra PT, and is currently working himself into a sweat (or working himself sweatier, to be more accurate) in the shade of the standing stones, alternating between sets of push-ups and sets of sit-ups. From the stickiness of his vest and the sheen on his brow, he's already been at it for a while.

Free time on a beautiful spring morning finds a certain flame-haired candidate meandering along, pausing every now and then to tip her face up to the sky. Either she’s trying to get a face tan, or she’s looking out for a particular dragon to come over. Or, and far more likely, she’s making shapes out of the few fluffy clouds that puff about up there in the blue. Perhaps it’s the scent of sweaty male BO drifted along on the playful breeze, or maybe it’s the occasional grunt that draws and narrows her gaze toward the tumble of ancient boulders. Ambling closer, she comes to a halt and folding her arms under her chest, fits Thierry with a browlifted look, “Clearly you misunderstand the notion of resting. That,” a jut of chin toward him, “is not it.”

"Not resting," Thierry snorts snippily as his gaze flickers up to Prymelia, mid push-up. He's wearing a look of intense concentration - or maybe he's just frowning to stop the beads of sweat from trickling into his eyes? "Three… two… one." And he's done, rolling over onto his back and panting. "Hey Firebush. I gotcha for self defence later today?" Thi peers up at her through half-squinted eyes, smirking through his panted breaths. "You wanna pull a sicky? Go fuck around in the abandoned caverns instead?"

Remaining where she is, Prymelia utters a soft snort at talk of self-defense. “Not if you don’t hit the bathing caverns first, you don’t.” Because ‘ew sweaty!’ and not in the good way either. As to Thierry’s suggestion, the trader straightens her spine and fits him with a long, long look. “I’m twenty-two, not eight. I don’t pull sickys unless I’m really sick. Not to mention that the abandoned caverns have been deemed unsafe which is why they’ve been boarded up.” She tells him in a completely neutral.

A dismissive hand and a snort is given to all of those things, as Thierry gets to his feet to amble sweatily over to Prym. "They ain't that bad. And I wanna go stab some tunnelsnakes or summat." Sidestepping around the trader-turned-candidate, he throws a wide, swinging punch at the air, followed by a quick jab and a knee driven up into an invisible groin. More such moves follow, with him circling in a wide arc around Prym, grunting with the full-force effort he puts into each faux-attack. "Don't wantcha coming this afternoon, Prym."

Maintaining her posture of arms folded beneath her chest, Prymelia remains as she is while Thierry puts eliminates an invisible attacker. “Add some music and that all could be come a part of some crazy harper tale,” she tells him with a little smirk of amusement. Said humor drifts off and elegant brows dip. “Why? Because I said you need to take a bath first?”

"No. Because I'm gonna break your nose if you do." He may be telling the truth, as he turns towards her, the heel of his hand aimed straight at her nose. Thierry pulls the hit of course, but his puffing and his surly frown suggest he could have kept it going, very easily. "I don't wanna do PT today. I don't wanna pull punches. I wanna drive my fist through some — forget it." The teen exhales grumpily, kicking at the closest stony pillar. "What the fuck's with you girls, anyways?"

"What the fuck!?" Arm unfold and hands plant to slender hips. To her credit, Prymelia doesn't flinch when the male candidate aims his hand right for her nose, there is however a dangerous narrowing of hazel eyes. "Hit me, outside of self defense classes and I'll have your arse in a sling so quickly you'll forget your own name." She warns now keeping a wary eye on Thierry. "Let me guess. Some girl wouldn't show you her tits again. Build a bridge, lad."

Thierry snorts. "I'm not gonna fucking hitcha, Benden flower. The fuck d'you think I am, huh?" His hands drop to his hips, and he fixes Prymelia with a glower. "Din't even try asking her to get 'em out. Just liked her, that's all." He shrugs, looking down at his toes to hide the fleeting flicker of emotion that crosses his features before he can school them back into a frown. "I'm going somewhere, right? Being here means I'm going somewhere? Gives me a bit of worth, don't it?"

Prymelia doesn’t respond to the first, merely arching a brow higher in dubious speculation. For his next, that brow smoothes back into place opposite the other and she’s quiet for a few moments. “And she doesn’t like you back.” She surmises exhaling a quiet sigh. “That’s never an easy thing to hear.” The former trader states, shifting her weight to one leg so that the opposite hip juts out in a slightly more relaxed pose. “Being here, means we’re all at a crossroads. One way is a dragon and a new way of life. The other?” Slender shoulders lift and fall. “We go back to where we came from and use what we learned here to improve what we return to.” Yukie-zen must be rubbing off on her.

"No, she did like me back." Thierry's certain of that. "She brought me that stuff on the island. Din't even ask her for anything, but she brought it. And we were all, like… coulda-been-fucking, right over there," he points to a spot amongst the stones. "Didn't do it, though, cos…" The knot on his shoulder's tapped. He's following that rule, at least. "Fuck her, anyway. I'm going back to the fucking bazaar to beat the shit outta them fuckers that're still there."

She being the very last person that should be giving relationship advice, Prymelia doesn’t even attempt to, instead she listens quietly to Thierry’s frustration. “You do that and they’ll toss you out of candidacy in a heartbeat and I can’t imagine that anyone is worth that, aye? She sounds like someone that doesn’t know her own mind so you’re probably better off without.” That her opinion with what little information she has to go by.

"She's gonna get me kicked outta candidacy anyway," Thierry replies with forced nonchalance. "Gonna report me cos I told her t'go fuck herself, and showed her this." He sticks up his middle finger at Prymelia. "I wanted you to show me picnic shit so's I could do it for her. Betcha she wouldn't've liked it, though. She likes… fancy shit. And I'm just a fucking streetrat." This time when he kicks at the stony pillar, it's accompanied by a frustrated yell. "Fuck her."

Although she herself has a fairly spectacular temper on her and has been known to walk the boundaries of what is acceptable, Thierry’s confession widens hazel eyes. “You flipped off a full rider? And told her to go…fuck herself? What the fuck for!?” Clearly she seems to share the same opinion about him now running a very high risk of being turfed out of candidacy. With an exasperated sound, a lifts from her hip and pinches at the bridge of her nose. “You have to apologize. Now. Before she has a chance to report you. You’re better than that, Thierry. You’re better than her. Do the right thing and show her that by apologizing and sounding like you mean it.”

"She accused me of fucking brown-nosing. I don't do shit like that. Never have, never fucking will. I'd rather stay at the bottom all mu fucking life than kiss someone's fucking arse to clamber a step up the shardin' ladder. Fuck that." Thierry spits violently at the floor, shaking his head. "She don't deserve an apology. Not gonna give one unless I've gotta, and that ain't cos I'm kissing arse - that's cos I'm doing what I gotta to stay in the game. She's a fucking bitch."

“Brown-nosing how?” Prymelia asks, surprisingly calm in the face of Thierry’s anger and frustration. As for apologies, the former trader utters a snort of contempt. “Its not about licking arse, you prat! It’s about doing what you have to do to stay in the game.” His words borrowed exactly. “If there was one thing I learned while I was in Southern, its that no one’s gonna change your diapers for you. You learn what the rules are and then you figure out how to use them to your benefit. You work hard and you mind your manners. You take your knocks, you dust yourself off and you carry on with as much dignity as possible. When the Headman threatens to tear your contract up? You prove to him why doing that would be a bad idea. You show him, playing by his rules, why he can’t do without you.” Mini lecture over, Prymelia pauses for a breath, her chest rising and falling with the strength of her convictions.

"Cos I got a couple sorta-friends who've got shinier knots than I do. She reckons I'm manipu-fucking-latin' 'em to get what I want. What the fuck'm I gonna gain from them? They ain't got no sway on what the dragons want." Thierry flumps grumpily against a stone pillar, wiping his hand across his sweaty brow. "Yeah, you make sense if you're talking about you, lady. Ain't no value to the Weyr in having a streetrat on the Sands. They're better with a Holder, or a Crafter at least - my folks ain't got nothing to tithe."

A short nod of head acknowledges the explanation of shiny knots that Thierry gives and then, there’s the slap of palms to thighs when Prymelia flings her arms up in exasperation and lets them drop back down again. “Are you shitting me? Its exactly the same!! No one can tell the dragons who to choose but what they can do, is see you never get the chance to find out if your dragon’s on the sands or not by kicking your whiny arse out of candidacy. The question isn’t whether she’s a bitch or not, or whether you have value to the Weyr or not. The question,” she pauses for effect and boldly takes a step right up into the former guard recruit’s space, “is how much do you // want your chance on the sands. What are //you prepared to give, to sacrifice, to get it?” Slowly lips curl about a challenging line, “Or are you a pussy that’s going to throw a temper tantrum and give up because someone said a few mean things?” Meant to jolt him out of the pity party and into action more than its meant to start a fight.

Thierry frowns at Prymelia as she speaks, glowering down at her when she steps so close to his stinky sweaty self. "You know I don't want no-one telling me I can't have my shot on the Sands, Firebush. And I ain't no fucking pussy, either, but she ain't gonna listen, no matter whatever the fuck I say. She's gonna turn aside and block me the fuck out, cos she's like that." He huffs out an angry, frustrated breath, tugging his fingers through his hair. "Fuck. You got paper on you? A pencil?"

Yes, she’s about two inches shorter than but clearly that means little to the fiery tempered young woman when her dander is up. “Aye, and?” Prymelia counters on this person turning aside. “I thought you had bigger balls than that.” A snort to punctuate her taunt. “You do the right thing. You apologize all respectful, using all the right words and keeping that mug of yours free of… that.” A finger circles about the deep scowl of his brows. “You gotta look like you’re sorry. Fucking tug your forelock if that’s what it’ll take.” Stepping back, she digs in a hidden pocket and extracts a pencil and small notebook. “Aye, here.” The items held out to Thierry.

"What the fuck else d'you keep in there, huh?" Thierry gestures to Prymelia's ensemble, before he takes the paper and pencil. "Dunno what I oughta write." With the paper pressed up against the stone that surrounds them, Thierry scrawls 'Deer Z' - and that's as far as he gets. "She's gonna hate my writing." It is childishly messy. "And she's gonna hate my spelling. I can't." The writing gear is held out, handed back. "I'm gonna try finding her. It's gonna go fucking bad, Prym. But I'm gonna try finding her before she can get her complaint it… if she ain't done it already. Betcha she has. She's efficient."

Waiting patiently as Thiery begins to scratch out the beginnings of a note, brows tangled toward one another in a frown, Prymelia chuffs a short breath out. “Your balls. And I’ll give them back when you…” The sentence cuts off and she takes the pencil and notepad back into her possession. “Good! Face to face is better.” Tucking the items away, she slips her hand into another pocket and pulling out a fist full of something holds it out toward him. If he opens a palm to receive the ‘item’, she’ll drop a fistful of air into it, her hand having been empty. “Your balls. You can have them back now.” Cue the smirk followed by a wink. “And good luck with the apologizing. Just remember, now matter how it goes, you be sure to keep your cap in your hands and fingers and cusses to yourself, aye?” And with that and a little pat of hand to the other candidate’s shoulder, she turns and meanders back the way she’d come.

The handful of air is accepted, and Thierry snorts as he listens to her advice. "Yu-huh. Whatever, lady." He falls in behind her when she leaves, then trots to catch up. "Oi. Firebush." Thierry reaches for her hand, holding it up so he can drop his imaginary balls into her palm. "You keep 'em. Just in case she tries nickin' 'em off me." He winks, then sets off ahead of her at a ground-eating jog.

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