Who

Thierry, Cha'el

What

Thierry gifts Cha'el with a treasure found on the island while the Weyrsecond offers what advice he can.

When

It is midmorning of the twenty-eighth day of the fourth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr, Lakeshore

OOC Date

 

thierry%2023.jpg Chael2.png

igenlakeshore.jpg

Lakeshore

Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens.


There's a storm a'coming! It's roiling dark in the sky beyond the Weyr, threatening something huge later in the day no doubt; but for now the sun still shines down on the bowls, glinting off the lake's waters, warming the sands along its edge. After having planned to meet Cha'el at a time round about now, Thierry is mooching his way along the shore with a little bag slung over his arm, looking even more tanned than his typically warm complexion's normal sun-kissed hue - sunburnt even, on his cheeks and nose. He's not bothered to shave yet from his island ordeal, and is sporting a near fortnight of fluffy growth along his jaw and neck. Maybe he's trying to copy a certain brownrider's style?

With a length of leather strapping draped across his lap and a sturdy needle and thick gut in hand, the Weyrsecond appears to be hard at work. That is if one discounts the scowl that gets lifted to the storm brewing along the horizon. Dust storms and rain storms. Both have disgruntled associations now attached to them. Jerking his attention downwards and stabbing the needle through the hole created earlier by an awl, concentration lacking, Cha’el manages to stab his finger below. “Fuggit!!” Is growled out about the digit quickly shoved into his mouth. It’s about then that Thierry’s approach is noted, keen blue eyes latching first to the reddened hue provided by the bite of Rukbat and the fuzz spilled across the candidate’s face. Index finger extracted there’s a sardonic comment to be made. “Lose your razor blade on the island?” Drawled without the typical dash of teasing humor normally associated with the brownrider.

Thierry shrugs as he approaches Cha'el, in response to his question. "Didn't take one. Didn't think to." He scratches self-consciously at his cheek, pulling a face at the wiry itchiness of the hair. Without waiting to be invited he drops down onto the ground beside the Weyrsecond, turning to face him with a salute that's a little sloppy - not up to his typical standard, anyway. That little bag he was carrying is set gently down between his sprawled legs, and he nods his head at the leathers that caused the brownrider to swear. "Whatcha doing?"

A faint curl of lips, almost lost within the groom of beard, pulls to one side in wry expression. “How’d it go?” The island. The sloppy salute is given a faint narrowing of eyes and then a smarter one is returned. “Time’s drawing short,” Cha’el notes, going back to feeding the needle and gut through the holes of two strips of leather lined up one beneath the other, “you’re gonna to get that smart or else if you impress, A’dan’ll have your nuts for earrings.” Smirk. A few moments of silence and then hands pause and his gaze lifts. “Mending a section of strapping that got torn.” The how of it left alone. “Treasures from the island?” His baritone lilts slightly upward of the bag Thierry cradles so carefully between his legs. “Or did the girls strip you of your nuts and put ‘em in there?” Now there’s a flicker of dry humor.

"I can do it smart. I'm just tired. Too much sleeping with girls… and not in the fun way." Thierry's nose wrinkles, and he brushes his fingers through his hair to sweep it back from his forehead. It's thick enough to stand near enough up, messy atop his head. "Mebbe A'dan'd like wearing balls for earrings. Shame he can't take 'em off the girls who can't salute for shit." He snorts, leaning forward to gently cradle the bag in one hand, before taking it by its drawstring top to offer it to Cha'el. "I know you want 'em, Weyrsecond, but trust me, they're right here." His empty hand grabs at his crotch. "Got this for you. Gotta be gentle, though…"

Up goes a brow and then levels out when Thierry qualifies his statement about sleeping with girls. A snort greets comment about A’dan and sloppy female salutes. “Some of them will wind up smarter than the boys.” A pause as he ties a knot in the gut and neatly severs it with a belt knife. “Because they feel they have more to prove.” Simple statement of fact. Surprise etches a light pattern across Cha’el’s expression and setting the needle and knife down on top of the canvas bag to his side; he takes the bag being offered flicking the candidate a dubious look. “I swear if there’s a tunnelsnake head in here, I’m gonna bust your arse so bad you’ll wish you were back on the island.”

"For serious? You reckon I'd do that?" Thierry blows a raspberry at the brownrider, shaking his head in disbelief. "I killed a loada snakes. Snake-snakes, not tunnelsnakes. Got skins off 'em real nice, too. D'you like snakeskin? Cos I kept a couple. Traded the rest already… and I got feathers, too." His volcanic adventure was clearly profitable. "Kept that'un," he nods his head at the bag, "back for you. Coulda sold it on, y'know. Did with all the others."

The look Cha’el sends Thierry probably says it all – Yes, he really thinks he’d do something like that. There is next a mark of approval for talk of snake skins and trading them. “Naw, its all good, kid. You keep them and trade them later when you have the need.” Carefully the bag is opened with all the caution that suggests he doesn’t believe there not to be a tunnelsnake head in it and then pauses. “Some might call this bribery,” noted with such a stern set to features that he might well mean to deliver admonishment. Save for the lessening of strain about blue eyes. “Zeyta told me what she did. Bought you an extra day out there, eh?” Darkly amused and now he peers within.

A frown draws Thierry's brows down over his dark eyes, and he fixes the look on Cha'el as he leans back, resting his weight on his hands. "Really. Dunno what I'd get outta bribing you, Weyrsecond. Gotta big knot, sure," his gaze flickers to it, "but you ain't gonna make a dragon pick me, are ya? This is cos…" Mention of Zeyta deepens the frown, and he scratches a sandy hand through his hair. "Yeah, but she brought me some fucking sweet stuff. And she din't hafta do it either, which was awesome. She's alright when she ain't being a bitch, y'know? That brown's kinda scary, though." The teen's lip curls in dislike, and he shrugs. "Anyhows. That's," back to the gift, now, "cos I wanted to sorta say, y'know. You're alright." Big praise! Thierry's sunburnt cheeks blush a touch darker.

“Not always about the dragon, kid.” Cha’el states and then passes another of those browlifted looks over to him. “What does ‘foresight’ mean? It was on one of the pebbles your flit dropped at her.” Oh so cunning the expression the Weyrsecond now wears. Which disappears the moment Thierry explains the reason for the gift. To say that the brownrider is dumbstruck would be an understatement. Blankly he stares at the candidate for a few moments not quite sure how to respond to such a thing and then he smiles, the first true sign of warmth in a good few days now breaking across his face. “You’re full of shit,” he pretend-grumbles and dips his hand inward to extract the smooth oval object. “A flit egg?” Either that or it’s one ENORMOUS snake egg.

Foresight. He knows about that? "What? That weren't for you ta see - how the fuck'd you see them?" There's a look of slight panic on Thierry's face, which he hides with a deep frown. "They weren't yours t'see, Weyrsecond. They were for Zeyta." He squirms, looking embarrassed. "You're more full of shit. And yeah, it's a firelizard egg. Sold the rest of 'em, kept the biggest one for you. Mightn'ta though, if I'd known you'd been snooping in Zey's stuff!"

A Dishonest Man You Can Always Trust to be Dishonest Brown Hatchling
Rum's drunk glimmer dances down his bawdy back, spread out across his wings and sprinkled with sea-shanty silver and golden enchantment. There's a drunken swagger to his swarthy walk, each dark-toed foot bootclad in black, and a hazy sort of wooziness to the colours that daub with sea-scoundrel's honestly dishonest dirtiness across his lithe form. Ah, but there's a savvy glint to his eye and a canny cant to his hat-brown headknobs for all his uneasy swaying - a buccaneer and a captain, dressed in his brown finest for the great adventure of life.

“Foresight is thinking about where she might have been and who she might have been with when your flit dropped those pebbles off.” Cha’el replies settling the faintest of smirks onto the candidate as if to suggest he had been with Zeyta in the carnal sense at the time. It drops away as he carefully inspects the egg making the error of holding it up in front of his face for without warning there’s a loud CRACK and the entire egg shatters leaving in its wake a gooey drunkenly kreeling brown hatchling. “The fuck!?” Caught unawares, the poor little bugger is almost dropped and finds the Weyrsecond fumbling for a few moments as he attempts to keep a hold of its slippery little body.

"No way." Thierry picks up on that intention, mouth agape in disgust as he shakes his head. "No way. You weren't boning her. No way. She wouldn't." Or so he hopes? And then thank Faranth for surprises, because that little brown couldn't've had better timing! It makes Thierry blink in surprise to see the little guy hatch right there and then - then he smirks and laughs. "Hah. Knew I hadta meetcha today, Weyrsecond." He digs into his pocket, pulling out a strip of the jerky he keeps for his own two. "Here!" It's waggled at the brownrider.

Peck, peck, peck. The brown hatchling makes a dive for Cha’el’s chin and starts pulling at the bristles of his beard. “Ow! Gerroff you little shit!” The jerky Thierry holds out is snatched at and shoved in front of the flit’s questing maw. Drunkenly it sways backwards and then goes squinty-eyed as it attempts to sight the morsel before lurching forward to snap it up. “And why wouldn’t she, eh? She’s been working under me,” dirty smirk there, “for a couple of days now.” A pause to peer at the hatchling when appears to hiccough. “If I’d known you had a thing for her….” Sly the sidelong flick of eyes.

"Musta been fucked up going between," Thierry says of the brown, frowning at the way it acts. "Stupid sorta thing, ain't it? Thought I had it all wrapped up good." But perhaps not good enough. He fishes out some more jerky, handing it to Cha'el. "You're lying. She woulda told me to piss me off. That's how she is." As for having a thing for her? "Shuddup. Do not." But the blush gives him away.

The next piece of jerky is reached for and offered to the swaying flit, laughter finally making its way to blue eyes. “Aye, I’m pulling your tail, kid. But she is now my assistant so be careful what you send her and when. And don’t forget the rule about keeping it in your pants, aye?” Cha’el reminds and then rolls his eyes at the telling blush. “She’s gonna eat you for breakfast.” And for some reason, that amuses the Weyrsecond. “Nah, he’s not fucked up,” he then states on the firelizard rocking back and forth on his knee, “he just hasn’t gotten his land legs yet.”

There's one more piece of jerky he's able to find in his pockets, and Thierry hands that over, too. "Your assistant. Huh." He snorts, rubbing his hand roughly under his nose. "We ain't done nothing. Sorta leaned on her a bit or whatever. Coulda mebbe kissed her, but I didn't. Riiiight over there." A grubby finger is pointed at the standing stones, before he goes fishing for tokes in his pocket. "She don't like me so much half the time, but I get her. 'Foresight' was a vocaburara-whatever thing she made me learn. Guess y'didn't see them other stones, huh?"

Grateful for the supply of hatchling treats Thierry has on hand, Cha’el offers the last to the little fellow that’s now tipped forward and leaning up against his midriff like a drunken sailor. “Vocabulary.” The Weyrsecond offers enunciating slowly. There’s a shake of head for having seen the other stones and then a snort of amusement as brown flit keels over to the left and…goes to sleep in a messy sprawl of wings and limbs. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day. What did you do? Soak that jerky in rum?” Carefully the comatose creature is arranged over his shoulder like a draped towel and then the Weyrsecond leans forward and begins packing his repair tools back into the bag they’d been set on top of. “You just be careful around, Zeyta, aye? Don’t want to see you get your heart ripped out.” Sincerely spoken.

Thierry dips his hand into his pocket, pulling out a pinch of loose tobacco leaves. "Betcha it had some of these on it," he smirks, letting the dried leaves flutter to the ground. He lights his toke, then shifts to sit cross-legged and facing the brownrider. "What's the worst a girl can do?" Clearly, he's clueless. "She's not so bad. Wouldn't mind copping a feel of them tits." He holds up both hands, toke held loosely between two fingers, and mimes copping a feel. "Betcha she won't let me, though."

When the loose leaves are scattered to the ground, Cha’el groans. “That shit could kill a baby,” he tells Thierry, lifting a large hand and cupping it protectively over the little flit draped over his shoulder. Perhaps even giving it a little shake to check its still breathing. And then he snorts as he goes back to fastening the clips on his bag. “Bet she clocks you one so hard you’ll be seeing stars for days!”

"Eh, mine're alright. They been eating it too, y'know." Thierry shrugs, his expression nonchalant. He leans back to blow smoke up into the sky, exhaling it on a long breath. "I betcha she don't, y'know. Mebbe she likes me, or summat, but I betcha she don't do that. Anyway, we ain't gonna find out for a while yet, right?" He flicks the knot on his shoulder. "Mebbe even longer than that."

All Thierry’s reassurance earns him is a narrowed look followed by a grunt. Pulling his bag closer, careful not to lean too far forward and dislodge his shoulder ornament, Cha’el begins winding the two lengths of leather strapping into a loose loop. “You just keep your eyes open, Thierry.” Solemnly spoken with the candidate’s full name used. “And if you impress out there on the sands, there can be nothing else but you and that new young mind battering up against your own.”

Thierry sniffs indignantly, wrinkling his nose at Cha'el… before his expression turns more serious. "I don't wanna screw this up, Weyrsecond. I don't reckon there's anyone who thinks I'm gonna do good out there, but I wanna. Well, mebbe Sienna. She might. But I ain't holding my hopes high any more than I'm shoving 'em off completely, right? Could be I have a chance." He shrugs, stubbing out his spent toke and flicking it away. "Could be, right?"

Drawing the looped leather over his shoulder, Cha’el covers the little body – now snoring – over his shoulder with a hand and stands. “Could be anyone of you, kid. There’s no way to know what attracts a dragon and what doesn’t. You just be ready for whatever comes your way and take it on the chin, aye?” With that his brawny frame leans toward the left, readying to take a step in that direction. “And uh, thanks for this little guy. Think I’ll call him, Savvy. Let him think he has a foot up in life.” A wink is given Thierry for that.
When Cha'el stands, Thierry follows. "Wanna ask you later what it was like for you, Weyrsecond. I wanna be proper prepared, but don'tcha going telling anyone that, alright? Don't want 'em all thinking I'm going soft or some shit." He pulls his frame up defensively, puffing out his chest. "Reckon that little 'lizard's got about six feet up." This amuses him entirely, and he holds up his fist for a fistbump with the brownrider. "Hey, I oughta mebbe get to chores, yeah? Still gotta somehow sew a fucking robe."

“Walk with me,” Cha’el invites, tilting his head in the direction of the Weyr. “You could ask a dozen rider and you’ll get a different answer every time,” he begins to reply walking off and merely expecting Thierry to keep up. “Its different for everyone.” A short grunt of amusement shorts out at going soft. “It’s good to be prepared.” That fist being held up, met with a large scar knuckled one. “And that what I was doing now these?” The Weyrsecond’s head turns to touch his bristly chin to the leather looped over his shoulder, “Was thanks to knowing how to sew. It’s a good skill for a man to have.”

"Sewing's a girl's task in the bazaar, Weyrsecond." Thierry huffs, digging his hands deep into his pockets as he keeps pace with Cha'el. "And that stuff, straps? Right? It ain't sewing-sewing. It's stuff you've gotta know. It ain't fancy-schmancy shit like sticking a robe together. I don't even know how the fuck that's meant to happen. What'd you do?"

For the first time since a certain Weyrsecond had returned to the Weyr with his tail between his legs, laughter starts out as a low chuckle and becomes a rumbling measure of true amusement. “Tell me one thing, kid. Do you think Seacrafters are a bunch of women?”

Thierry looks up at the laughter, frowning - he doesn't seem to realise what he said that's so funny. "I, er… don't think I've ever met one." He scratches fingers through his hair, shrugging. "Dunno why that's funny."

Further amusement in another rolling chuckle. “I was a fucking Seacrafter, you eejit.” Cha’el informs Thierry. “Journeyman.” He adds humor continuing to linger. “We had to learn to work a needle and thread as neatly as a weaver to make and mend sails, patch our clothing at sea, mend our socks and sometimes stick a row of stitches into cuts.” Flicking the candidate a sidelong look, the Weyrsecond continues. “That’s how I did it. I made my own robe. And if you’re smart, you’ll find a female candidate that can sew and ask her to teach you.”

"Huh. I din't know that, you never said." And, similarly, Thierry never asked. He reaches over to flick Cha'el's arm. "Seacraft's not pansyish though. It's for men. So you were sewing manly things." Like sails and open wounds, rar. His hands are dug back into his pockets, and he paces on. "That Majel girl sews. She don't like me, though." Surprise surprise. "Mebbe there's one of the littl'uns I can make do it for me."

“You didn’t ask,” Cha’el responds adjusting the drape of liquid brown drooping over his shoulder. “Aye. It’s for men and men wear clothes and clothes need fixing. And robes are a piece of clothing. Still have mine you know.” The Weyrsecond reveals. “My mother took it after I impressed and then when she died and I took over her things, it was there all neatly folded in one of her trunks.” Fond and wistful the softening of the brownrider’s expression. “Any way. Point is. You’ll be more of a man and not less if you can do it for yourself.”

"Bah." And that's what Thi thinks of that. "That were nice of your ma, though. Mine might do summat like that. I'm her last, y'know? She kept all my baby shit." Hopefully he doesn't mean that literally. "Don't reckon it'll make me more of a man, but I'll find someone. I oughta go though, Weyrsecond. I'm doing some stupid stuff in the kitchens before lunch. Probably peeling stuff again." Which he is so enthusiastic about.

“Enjoy your mother while you still have her, kid.” And with that last nugget of advice, the Weyrsecond ticks off a salute and nods. “Keep it real.” And then with a lopsided smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, Cha’el heads off to where his mottled rock of a dragon is waiting for him, newly hatched flit still dead to the world.

Just to prove he can, Thierry returns the salute with an especially sharp one - fully straight-backed and all. "See ya, sir." The salute's dropped, and while Cha'el heads in one direction, he turns to go in the other.

Add a New Comment